


Adamantine

by etherina



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Assassin!AU, BAMF!Sansa, Blood and Violence, Crossover, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Murder, Nudity, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-10 04:57:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12291735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etherina/pseuds/etherina
Summary: Adamantine; unable to be brokenShe didn’t do it purely for herself. She didn’t study the deadly arts for ten years only to exact vengeance, bring justice, or maintain useless honor. This was bigger than her alone. This was about the distant howls of winter winds, the looming cold in the night that froze men’s hearts mid-beat, and the darkness that seeped into one’s bones to fester and rot. This was, above anything else, about survival.Sansa Stark had a duty to fulfill, and Gods help those who dared stand in her way.





	1. Chance Encounters

**Author's Note:**

> **BEFORE YOU READ:**
> 
>   * As I clearly state in the tags — there will be **violence, blood, murder, implied rape/non-con** and **nudity** in this story. If you are not okay with these subjects, or if you are underage, I strongly advise you to leave.
>   * This is a work in progress so don’t expect regular updates, but I will try to post at least once a month. Still, I make no promises.
>   * The assassin aspect of this story is _heavily,_ if not _completely_ , inspired by the games **Assassin’s Creed**. However, you don’t need to be familiar with the series to read this. I will explain everything the best I can and if you have any questions I’ll happily answer them in the comments  <3
>   * There are a lot of quotes from GoT, ASOIAF, and Assassin’s Creed in this story but they aren’t marked in any special way, simply because there are so many and it would take forever for me to mark them all. Anyway, if you recognize anything, that’s probably why.
>   * The timeline is adapted to fit the story, so don’t take canon events too seriously, especially in the first chapter.
>   * I do not own GoT, ASOIAF, Assassin’s Creed or the pictures for the headers. I only came up with the plot.
>   * For each chapter, there will be a song quote written in the beginning. I will link to each song, as well as the Adamantine Spotify playlist, at the end. Songs will be added to the playlist as I move along writing the corresponding chapters, so you get small hints about what's to come from that ;) You’ll also find links to pictures that I’ve used as inspiration at the end, so check them out if you want visuals!
>   * The word count for each chapter will probably be around 2-4k, that being said, this first chapter is an exception with around 10k
>   * You can always contact me on Tumblr if you have questions, concerns etc. My ask and PM is always open ;) Tumblr: [@etherina  
>  ](https://etherina.tumblr.com/)
>   * Many thanks to [@Gatinha15](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gatinha15/pseuds/Gatinha15) ( [Tumblr: @flv-gatinha15](https://flv-gatinha15.tumblr.com/)) for discussing plot with me!
>   * Last but not least, I want to thank [@petyrbaealish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/petyrbaealish/pseuds/petyrbaealish) ([Tumblr: @petyrbaealish](http://petyrbaealish.tumblr.com/)) for being a wonderful beta! 
> 


* * *

 

_“Holy light, oh, guard the night,_  
_oh keep the spirits strong._  
_Watch you grow, child of wolf,_  
_oh keep holding on.”_

* * *

 

Sansa’s eyes snapped open and the remnants of her vivid dream faded from her mind. The agonized screams of dying men became no more than a distant buzz in her ears, the stench of burning flesh no longer stung her nostrils and the raging flames that had once been so brilliantly green dissipated into the darkness of the night.

She was used to the nightmares by now, for she knew they would return each time she closed her eyes, and yet they terrified her. She always woke drenched in sweat, her whole body shivering with fear, tears streaming down her face and a scream clawing its way up her throat. Thankfully, she had never let that scream escape her. She always choked it down just in time.

She was sure her saviour would scold her, perhaps even abandon her, if she screamed. Sandor Clegane could be kind, at least he wasn’t cruel like Meryn Trant, but he was under no obligation to keep her alive out in the woods. He was on the run too. If her night terrors drew attention to them she wouldn’t blame him for hating her.

He had already done so much to help her — smuggled her out of King’s Landing during the Battle of the Blackwater, stolen clothes for her, given her food and shared his shelter. It was more than she could have ever asked for.

 _And he says he’s no knight. He’s more of a knight than any other man I’ve met,_ Sansa thought bitterly and pulled the thin woollen blanket tighter around her body. In her dreams it was always insufferably hot, but out in the woods at night, the cold winds were biting every inch of exposed skin.

With the proper attire she would have managed, she was sure of it. After all, she had grown up in the North and was used to frigid temperatures, but now — dressed in only a pair of worn trousers and a cotton blouse, which was drenched in sweat to boot — it was almost unbearable. She could only relax when morning came, but the sunshine was hours away now.

She sat up and carefully poked a stick into the dying embers of the fire, hoping that it would flare up with its warmth again but to her disappointment, it didn’t. She sighed and laid back down, fruitlessly trying to stop the chattering of her teeth by clenching her jaw and curling up into a tight ball.

She didn’t want to wake The Hound and ask him to relight the fire. Surely he would be angry with her then. He didn’t seem to like fires very much and he was always reluctant to light them in the first place.

She shivered and brushed a lock of hair away from her eyes, trying not to feel terribly sad about its state. The Hound had cut it short, making it only shoulder-length, and caked it in some mud he had found by a riverbank. Her long auburn tresses were a thing of the past.  Now she just looked like a dirty beggar girl.

From a distance, she might even look like a scrawny boy. Nobody ever cared enough to pay a second look to her and her companion.

The snap of twigs broke her out of her reverie and she bolted upright in fright, her heart in her throat and her breath quickening. She sat frozen in her place, her body tense like a bowstring, and her ears strained for more sounds. She prayed that the night would stay silent, just like it had those other times she thought she heard something.

There was a flutter of wings somewhere further off but she could not tell where. Was it a raven meant to carry word to the King of her capture? Had the goldcloaks finally caught up with them?

The sound of rushing water was distant murmur from the east. Was it from the Trident? Had she and The Hound only made it that far?

Then, she heard it — the hum of voices, low and secretive, sounding from the woods around her. They were close.  

Panic coursed through her and she scrambled over to the sleeping knight by her side, her mind in a dizzying frenzy. She shook him by the shoulder vigorously, her breath coming in pants as she heard them approach. _They’re coming. They’re coming. They’re coming._

“Please, Ser! Wake up!” she hissed as The Hound grunted and shoved her hands off, making her fall back onto the ground, but she was up again in a heartbeat. “There’s someone here!”

The Hound twisted his body around, his ever-present armour chinking with the movement, his horribly scarred face turning to her with scrutinizing eyes and a scowl. Sansa looked back at him with a quivering lip and a panic-stricken expression, ghostlike skin and eyes wide with fear — like she had seen a White Walker and somehow lived to tell the tale.

It would have been deathly silent had it not been for the soft crunching of boots upon the ground. It was barely audible, but to Sansa’s ears it was like thunder. _They’re coming._

“This better not be a bloody delusion of y–” The Hound started in a gruff voice but he got no further before the sounds of swords being drawn met their ears.

He was up in a split second, surprisingly agile in his heavy armour, with his own longsword drawn and held in front of him just when a group of men rushed into the camp. Before the first man even had time to lift his weapon, The Hound had cut him down with a heavy swing right into his shoulder. The man screamed and fell to the ground, blood gushing from his severed arm like a waterfall, soaking into the moss beneath him.

The Hound swung his sword against the next man with a growl but was met with the resistance of another blade. The clanging of steel rang in Sansa’s ears and she staggered backwards after being splattered in the face with a spray of blood — she did not know whose.

She wiped her face with her sleeve, both blood and tears being smeared over her cheek, and started to hastily pick up her things. It wasn’t much — only a small knife, a blanket, a bundle of hard bread and a few apples — but if she had to run, she would. If Sandor Clegane was slain on this night, she would continue on her own. She would run for as long as her legs could carry her.  _Just please don’t let me get caught,_ she prayed to all the Gods.

She kept the knife in her hand and the rest of her belongings wrapped in the blanket slung over her shoulder. She cast a quick look to The Hound, just in time to see an arrow embed itself into his right thigh, before scrambling in the opposite direction.

More men were streaming into the clearing — _Five? Ten? —_ and it became impossible for The Hound to hold them all back. Another arrow came whistling towards him but a stray sword sent it on a wavering path, narrowly missing Sansa’s head.

She shrieked as she felt the fletching graze her temple and several faces suddenly turned towards her, as if they had just realized she was there. She stumbled backwards, scraping her palms on a rock as she caught herself, and stared at them with fright. _Please no…_

“RUN, GIRL!” Sandor Clegane bellowed, driving his sword right through a man’s throat. The man gurgled, spluttering blood as the sword was yanked back. “NOW!”

At the sound of his command, Sansa turned and made an effort to flee but her legs seemed far too slow. Something hard smacked against the back of her head and she fell forward, catching herself just as pain exploded behind her eyes. She cried out and tried to crawl further away but her body wouldn’t move like she wanted it to. Blackness seeped around the edges of her vision, dulling the world around her.

As she faltered, the flash of bright yellow fabric caught her eye and only one coherent thing ran through her mind before she lost consciousness — _goldcloaks._

_~~~_

“What ya think ‘bout this one, Lem?”

Someone’s boot poked at her side and Sansa whimpered in fear more than pain. Rough rope was bound tightly around her wrists and ankles where she lay propped up against a tree.  A burlap bag covered her head, blocking out the sunshine that was just peeking over the horizon.  The bark of the tree dug into her spine like claws, scraping against her skin through the thin blouse that preserved her modesty.

She whimpered again as she felt the hot tears rolling down her cheeks, dripping down to her chin. She didn’t want to be so weak but she couldn’t seem to help the sobs that shook her body.

“Ya hear that? She’s weepin’ now too,” a man chuckled and put his hand on top of her head, his palm so large that his fingers could almost reach ear to ear.  He shook her roughly, like a child would with a newly purchased doll. Sansa cried out and sobbed even louder. “So? Whatcha wanna do with her?”

“We’ll take her with us. I’m sure some tavern would pay nicely for a pretty bird like that, once we’ve cleaned her up.”

“You sure we can’t keep her for ourselves? Nobody’s gonna miss her.”

Sansa didn’t listen. She was lost to her imagination, thinking of the all the horrible punishments she would receive once she was brought before the King, thrown at his feet to be stomped upon. Meryn Trant would beat her, she was sure of it, and Joffrey would make her run through the woods like some animal, hunting her with his beloved crossbow. He would enjoy that, she realised dully. He would laugh as she bled out before him. He would insist that such a fate was fitting for a traitor like her.

She briefly wondered what had become of Sandor Clegane. Was he dead already? Or had the goldcloaks taken him captive too? Was he perhaps tied to the other side of this tree in a similar manner as she was? She wished she knew. She would feel better knowing.

She liked to think that he was dead. That way he would be free. He wouldn’t have to endure Joffrey’s punishments like she would.

“We’ve been looking for you for a long time,” another man said suddenly, his husky voice accompanied with the steady thump of footsteps as he approached her. The hand on her head was quickly pulled away at the sound of his voice.

Sansa’s heart beat painfully in her chest, fear trickling down her spine like water from a wild river. She hunched her shoulders forward, cowering to her captors. Judging from the tone in the man’s voice, he seemed pleased with himself to have her at his mercy. Had the King offered a reward for whoever brought her back? He must have, surely.

“Draw your weapons!” someone else shouted and the sharp sound of blades being unsheathed made Sansa wince.  She didn’t know why they brandished their steel but she did not ponder it. If they wished to kill her they would do so. She could do nothing to stop it. She wasn’t even sure she _wanted_ to stop it. Death would be a mercy for her now.

 The man who was approaching stopped beside her, his cloak brushing Sansa’s left shoulder. She fought a repulsed shiver at the contact.

“There’s no need for that, Lem. You’re outnumbered, surely you must know that. Your little company of rogues does not even consist of a dozen men,” the man said coolly — an icy edge to his calm tone.

“My men are better at fighting than ya think, Beric.”

“Aye, but they’re far from the best.”

The distinct creaking of a bow being drawn sounded from her right and Sansa flinched away. As she moved, she lost her balance and fell to the side, her body accidently knocking against the man they called Beric.

Arrows were suddenly sailing through the air — the whistling reaching Sansa’s ears just before the shouts did.  She instinctively scrambled away from the turmoil and noise, only to find herself swiftly lifted off the ground and slung over someone’s shoulder.

Iron buckles dug into her hipbones and she wheezed with each heavy step her captor took, the air being knocked out of her lungs forcefully as she was carried away. She knew it would be best to simply be compliant — she had avoided plenty of punishments that way — but some defiant part of her was desperate to run and simply refused to remain timid.

She started shifting around, using her bound hands to feel for a weapon. When her fingertips finally met the cold sleek handle of a blade, a rush of adrenaline surged through her.

 _I can do this,_ she thought. _I’ll cut the ropes and run. That’s what Arya would do._

She gripped it tightly, sliding the blade out of the simple sheath with a quick yank, but she got no further than that. Rough hands abruptly took hold of her wrists — shock making her drop the weapon she thought had been so secure in her palms. She was swung off the shoulder with a shove and then, surprisingly gently, lowered to the ground against another tree trunk.

“You don’t wanna do that, little girl,” Beric rasped low into her ear and she stiffened, tears welling up in her eyes again. She felt the edge of the blade being pressed against her neck and braced herself for the cut. _Will it hurt,_ she wondered, _or will I be dead before I feel anything?_ She wasn’t sure if she cared. She only wanted it to be over.

The bag over her head was suddenly cut open and Sansa’s eyes were attacked by the bright morning sunlight. She blinked in an effort to rid herself of the spots that covered her vision.

“Calm down, lass. We won’t hurt ya,” Beric said and she focused on his face just as he cut the ropes that bound her hands and feet together. His beard was scraggly and dirty, his face worn from what must have been weeks out in the woods, and a patch of leather covered his right eye.

“What will you do to me?” Sansa asked, though she did not initially realize she had spoken. Beric clenched his jaw and looked over his shoulder at the man that stood behind him. A bow was slung over his shoulder and he was wiping blood off an arrow, frowning at Sansa before slowly shaking his head.

“Will you take me home?” Sansa whispered, barely audibly, and Beric looked back at her. She did not know why she asked that with such hope. She was so foolish to even dare think it.

“Wherever Lem took you from, there’s nothing left.” Beric said solemnly and sighed, his one uncovered eye staring intently at her. “I’ll give you a choice, girl. Either you go with us, or you stay here.”

Sansa swallowed dryly and asked, “Whose men are you?”

The man — an archer by the looks of it — chuckled and put the cleaned arrow in the quiver that was strapped to his side. “We fight for justice, not lords. We’ve all abandoned them for one reason or another, hence the name _the Brotherhood Without Banners.”_ He gestured with his chin towards Beric. "Dondarrion here used to follow Lord Stark’s orders, before he was beheaded. Then there were no more orders to follow.”

“Dondarrion?” Sansa whispered, more to herself than anyone else, and looked back at Beric.

Beric nodded. “Indeed.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “They say Beric Dondarrion was killed in the Battle at the Mummer’s Ford. You can’t be him. He’s dead,” she said and pressed herself against the tree, as if she could disappear into it.

 “Aye,” Beric said, “I was killed but I ain’t dead — at least not completely.”

_They’re trying to trick me. They just want me to trust them._

“I’m not going with you,” she blurted out, her voice breaking in fear. She had been raised by Septa Mordane to avoid people like them —beggars and outcasts, thieves and deserters, outlaws and turncloaks. There was a reason they were not welcome in the presence of Lords and Ladies. They were dangerous and unpredictable.

“Very well,” Beric said and stood up with a groan before picking up the knife Sansa had dropped, sheathing it by his hip. He whistled a short tune, similarly to a bird’s song, and started walking away. His feet barely making any sound as he moved.

The archer did a small, almost mocking bow and spoke. “May your travels lead you to safety, m’lady.”

With that, he too started to walk away from her. Sansa stared after them, suddenly noticing how the noises in the background of their conversation ceased. The chinking of a blade being sharpened quickly died out, the creaking of ropes being tied together ended abruptly, and the strangely comforting sound of suppressed laughter between friends turned into fading murmurs.

A lump formed in her throat, heavy and foul. Her very bones felt the loss of human life as the group that called themselves the Brotherhood Without Banners moved along. Without realizing it, she was running after them, her heart racing in her chest.

“Wait!” she called, a metallic taste already forming in her mouth as she stumbled over twigs and rocks to catch up. They had gotten surprisingly far already. “Please!”

The archer slowed his steps, his head turning a fraction to the side. Sansa was sure he had heard her when he whistled a tune not unlike the melody Beric had made just minutes before. When she finally reached him, she grabbed his arm and held on for dear life, not entirely sure what made her so desperate that she needed to cling to him.

“Please don’t leave, I’ve changed my mind,” she gasped, unaware of the tears that lined her cheeks. The archer simply looked at her and raised an eyebrow before grinning widely.

“I told ya she’d be back, Beric!”

“Aye,” Beric said, approaching them. “You’ve always had a way with women, Anguy.”

“Let me come with you!” Sansa said, her eyes frantically flicking between Beric and the archer named Anguy.

Beric’s single eye scrutinized her, carefully assessing every inch of her body. She felt a shiver trailing down her spine.

“As you wish,” he finally said and waved a hand in her direction. Sansa opened her mouth, a question on the tip of her tongue, but she had no time to utter it before a bag was pushed over her head and her hands bound behind her back tightly.

“No,” she gasped, although judging by the way her throat hurt, perhaps she had screamed. A hand was swiftly clamped over her mouth, pressing the rough fabric of the bag against her skin.

“I’m awfully sorry for this treatment, m’lady,” Sansa heard Anguy say before she was once again hoisted over someone’s shoulder. Her crying didn’t stop for a long time.

_~~~_

The stony ground was cold when they finally put Sansa down and removed the bag. She closed her eyes, expecting to be blinded by sunlight like last time, but slowly she came to realize it was almost completely dark around her. Hesitantly, she looked around, the only light coming from a fire in the middle of the cave they were in. Shadows played on the walls, forming ghastly figures as people moved around.

The pressure around her wrists loosened and soon she pulled her hands free from the rope, cautiously rubbing her sore skin. Looking up she saw Anguy sit down by the fire close to Beric, taking an arrow from his quiver to sharpen the tip. The sounds of whetstone against steel made her wince.

“What are you going to do to me?” she questioned, ashamed that it came out as a weak whimper. She wished she was stronger, like her Lady Mother.

“At first light we’ll head to a tavern further east, it’s not long from here. You should count yourself lucky if the owner decides to have you,” Beric stated and took an offered wineskin from another man. He took a large gulp before passing it on to Anguy.

“You’re going sell me?” Sansa whispered, rather sure she already knew the answer.

Beric looked deep into the flames of the fire, his uncovered eyebrow furrowed. “Don’t think of it that way.”

“But it _is_ that way,” she countered. Anguy sighed heavily and fixed his gaze on her.

“You have to understand, girl. We need the gold,” he said and took a swallow of wine as well. A strange feeling of betrayal filled Sansa’s chest. She had not felt that way since Joffrey cut her father’s head off.  After that, she had trusted no one and betrayal was no longer in the realm of possibilities.

“You said you’d take me with you,” she whispered.

“Aye,” Beric rasped and shrugged uncaringly. “We kept our promise.”

Sansa was taken aback by his response. “But if you’re going to sell me then–“

“We never said how long we’d keep ya,” Beric interrupted her, his stare making her throat constrict.

“Why didn’t you just leave me with the goldcloaks then if you’re so eager to get rid of me?” She hated how whiny her voice was. She sounded like a spoiled child.

“Goldcloaks?” Beric asked, frowning. “There were no goldcloaks.”

“But I saw it!” she exclaimed, frustrated that he didn’t believe her.

Beric sighed, shaking his head with exasperation. “You must’ve seen Lem’s cloak.”

“Who’s Lem?” she asked, confused.

“He used to be one of ours,” Anguy cut in, “but he decided he liked killing more than we did. So, he left, taking some of the more blood-thirsty men with him. His cloak is bright yellow, hence his nickname _Lemoncloak_ , or Lem if you will _._ Now that you mention it, perhaps he could pass as one of the King’s men,” he chuckled humourlessly.

“I think he killed my friend,” she whispered in a distant tone, feeling only a little strange calling The Hound a friend.

“As I said, he liked killing.” She was reminded of what The Hound had told her once — _‘killing is the sweetest thing there is.’_

“Where is... Lem… now?”

“Hanged,” Beric answered simply, effectively ending the conversation. Sansa decided not to ask any more questions.

For how long she sat there on the damp ground, her body aching with exhaustion, she did not know. Eventually she found herself lying down, staring into a stone wall. Somehow, she had acquired a blanket and wrapped it around herself, although she shivered from the cold nonetheless.

She unwillingly fell into a restless sleep, her body twisting and turning in discomfort. Like all other dreams she had, it started in Winterfell. Tall towers loomed over her as she exited the courtyard, the wide and seemingly endless field of summer grass stretching out before her. It smelt of home.

A man appeared riding over the horizon, holding a Stark banner high. It fluttered in the wind, moving as it pleased, as if it had a life of its own.

It was suddenly aflame, burning in scarlet colours more blinding than the sun. Sansa tried to shield her eyes with her hand but to no avail. The light shone right through her, as though she was made of nothing but glass.

The man holding the banner stood frozen in place as the fire licked its way down his arm and torso. The horse however, reared as the flesh was burnt off its bones, making a sound hauntingly similar to a scream. Its hooves tore into the ground mercilessly, tainting the grass with mud, but the horse remained in its place despite its efforts to run.

The banner fell to the ground, igniting the field and turning it into a green inferno. Sansa had no time to return inside the walls of Winterfell — to safety. The flames were already upon her, grasping her skirt like claws, tearing it to shreds as heat scorched her skin.

She wanted to scream but found that she could not do so. She was already on the ground, a hard body pressing her down and a fist gripping her around the neck. Meryn Trant’s eyes bore into her, a cruel smile spreading on his lips as he tightened his hold.

She gasped for air and tried to reach up to push him away but her body refused to move. Blood was dripping from his mouth, falling like fresh rain on Sansa’s pale skin. Joffrey was laughing.

The fire was burning underneath her, feeling like a thousand cutting blades on her back. She writhed in agony, tears quickly pooling in her eyes. People were screaming at her to run, to escape, but she couldn’t. She was stuck, burning alive. The knowledge of her weakness was taunting her.

Ser Meryn suddenly released Sansa’s neck and she wheezed as air rushed into her lungs. Her chest felt strangely hollow despite her deep breaths. She started to crawl backwards, away from her tormentor, away from the pain. She finally managed to stand up, her legs wobbling and threatening to collapse beneath her.

She turned, prepared to run, and came face to face with the half-rotten head of her father mounted on a wooden spike. Blood trickled from his empty eye sockets, his mouth wide open in a silent scream, his skin lifeless and pale. He was the Heart Tree of Winterfell.

Sansa jerked awake, her ears ringing loudly and her heartbeat echoing through her body. Her eyes quickly found the dancing flames in front of her and, in her sleep-muddled state, she quickly scrambled back in fear.

Next thing she knew, she was pushed to the side, landing on her arm painfully. She whimpered as she sat up, slowly becoming aware of reality. _Right,_ she thought in a dull tone. _The cave._

“Fuck off will ya?” a deep voice abruptly said from behind her. “I’m trying to sleep.”

Sansa looked over her shoulder at the man who was curled underneath a blanket, shifting around after being disturbed. She murmured an apology and wrapped herself in her own blanket before looking into the flames with a newfound calm.

The flaring heat brought no warmth to her chilled bones but she liked to imagine that it did. Soothing heat, not burning like in her dreams.

Looking over the fire she caught Beric’s eye as he observed her. Expecting him to avert his gaze, Sansa stared back at him, but he did not relent. She soon felt like a caged bird, trapped in his gaze.

“Nightmares?” he then asked and Sansa sucked in a breath, startled by the sudden end of silence. She anxiously looked down to her clasped hands and nodded mutely. “We all have ‘em. Some worse than others.”

“Even you?” she asked softly and heard Beric huff. She couldn’t tell if it was a laugh or not.

“Aye.” She looked up at him again, a question in her eyes but he answered before she had time to open her mouth. “About dying, mostly.”

Unable to stop herself, she blurted out, “I’ve heard that if you dream of dying, you die for true.”

This time, she was sure he laughed, but it was not a laugh of mirth. There was a flicker of pain glimmering in his eye.

“That would make it the seventh time…” he sighed wistfully. Sansa didn’t understand but she chose not to ask him about it.

“Are you really Beric Dondarrion?” she asked instead, something inside her craving the truth.

“I don’t see the point in lying about my name.”

Sansa frowned. “But you’re not dead. They all say Beric Dondarrion is dead.”

“ _All?_ And who, may I ask, is _all_?”

She opened her mouth to retort but quickly changed her mind, swallowing her answer. She couldn’t tell him how Joffrey had boasted of his victories. If she told him, he could figure out who she really was and sell her to someone far worse than the tavern owner. As Anguy said, they needed gold.

“Just… people,” she said instead and bit her lip nervously, hoping that he didn’t find her change of demeanour suspicious somehow. A gleam of reflected light caught her attention and she looked down at the object Beric was twirling between his fingers. She asked curiously, “What’s that?”

Beric looked sharply at her, his uncovered eyebrow twitching into a frown for a split second before his face became emotionless, distant. “A coin,” he said simply.

“What kind of coin?” Sansa inquired. She had never seen one like that before, but perhaps the shadows were merely playing tricks on her.

“A valuable one,” he divulged and closed his fist around it, moving to put it away in his pocket.

“Wait,” she begged and Beric stopped. “Can I see it?”

He tilted his head, remaining still for a second longer before flicking it to Sansa. It landed in her lap and she swiftly picked it up to hold it in the firelight. _It doesn’t look valuable,_ she thought.

 It seemed to be made of some cheap metal, perhaps just plain iron, not gold or silver like other coins. On one side there was a picture engraved of a hooded man and on the other there was a symbol she did not recognize. She bit her lip, suddenly feeling embarrassed. She had always prided herself for knowing all the sigils of the important houses in Westeros. This was the first time she encountered a symbol she was unfamiliar with.

“What does it mean?” she finally asked, feeling heat rise to her cheeks unwillingly. _Septa Mordane would have been disappointed in me,_ she thought fleetingly.

“What?” Beric said, his stare making her shiver in discomfort.

“The symbol…” she murmured anxiously, blushing even more. _It doesn’t matter,_ she scolded herself. _You’re just a beggar girl now. You shouldn’t know all the sigils anyway. Besides, Septa Mordane is dead — beheaded like your father._

“Describe it to me.”

“Huh?” Sansa asked, confused by his request.

“My one good eye ain’t as good as it used to be. Explain what the symbol looks like.”

“It’s… like a mountain I suppose, but only one mountain, one peak. Like an arrowhead. Perhaps…” she trailed off, only daring to meet Beric’s eye for a split second before looking away. “There’s something under it too... some sort of wave.  I... I’m sorry I don’t know how else to explain it.”

She wiped her sweaty palms on her trousers before stretching around the fire to hand the coin back to Beric. He took it from her slowly, almost cautiously, and as soon as it left her hand he pocketed it. Sansa crawled back to her place and wrapped the blanket around herself once more, feeling unsettled by Beric’s cautiousness.

She was startled when he spoke again. “You should sleep, girl. First light will soon be upon us.”

She nodded at him soundlessly and laid back down, turning away from him, hugging her knees for comfort. Only when she heard him stand and walk away did sleep come for her.

_~~~_

When dawn arrived, Sansa woke to the sounds of neighing horses and the rumble of conversation. She opened her eyes, silently watching men move in and out of the cave, carrying supplies and weapons with them. It was brighter now, despite the dead fire. Sunlight had somehow crawled its way into the cavern, however weakly.

“You’re awake,” Anguy said and flashed her a crooked smile. “Ya best get ready, we’ll be leaving soon. There’s a stream right outside the cave where ya can wash up.”

Sansa couldn’t help the smile that lit up her face. She had wished for a bath for days now and although a stream might not be what she had in mind, it was better than nothing. Her hands automatically went to her hair, as if to assess how many knots she would have to unravel, but her smile quickly died as she felt the roughly cut ends and the dirt that covered its auburn shade. She dropped her gaze to the ground, willing herself not to cry.

 “You alright, girl?” Anguy said and touched her shoulder gently. Sansa jerked away and his hand fell limply to his side.

“Yes… I… I just don’t think I want to clean up after all.” It was an awful lie, one that she thought shouted the truth with each word.

The auburn shade of her hair was unmistakable. They would know who she was the instant the dirt was washed away. What would they do to her then? She had no way of knowing and was more than reluctant to risk anything.

Anguy huffed a humourless laugh. “You needn’t worry. These boys keep their hands to themselves, as do I.”

Sansa flushed, her face hot in embarrassment. “No… I just…”

“Leave it, Anguy,” Beric suddenly said in a stern tone as he walked past them. Anguy rolled his eyes, looking frustrated.

“Yesterday ya said to make sure she’s freshened up, and now ya tell me to leave her be?”

“Aye, leave her be. No more questions now. Just get her on a horse.”

Anguy sighed and gestured for Sansa to follow him. She knew better than to refuse.

There was a clearing right by the cave’s exit, but the trees grew densely around it, branches stretching towards the sky, entwining with each other in twisting patterns. The sound of running water from the stream close by was soothing, as was the rustling of leaves as a gust of wind blew past. It reminded Sansa of the woods back in Winterfell.

As she closed her eyes, she could almost see her father sitting beneath the Heart tree, sharpening his sword Ice with long precise strokes down the blade. The image of her night terror flashed in her mind unwittingly and her eyelids flew open, destroying it.

Anguy led her to a black mare that stood tied to a tree, one hoof stomping the dirt restlessly.  Sansa approached with careful steps, biting her lip in nervousness. She did not have much experience with horses.

She gently laid her hand on the horse’s muzzle, her palm twitching as it blew out a long warm breath through its nostrils, tickling her arm. Anguy abruptly grabbed her around her waist, lifting her effortlessly up on the mare’s back. Sansa yelped in surprise and grabbed hold of the mane to keep herself steady.

She was inexperienced with riding, but even more so when she had to sit with one leg on each side as she did now. To her, riding side-saddle — as she had done with The Hound before the horse had perished from its wounds — was much easier in comparison.

Anguy heaved himself up behind her, circling her torso with his arms to grab hold of the reins. She didn’t particularly mind. She felt oddly protected, like she had with her father’s Captain of Guards, Jory. _He won’t let me fall,_ she thought.

From the corner of her eye Sansa saw a small group of men entering the clearing calmly. A man wearing a dirty red cloak walked first, looking around with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re late,” Beric said and approached the man, tossing him a wineskin which he caught mid-air.

“I wasn’t aware we had plans to go somewhere,” the man responded and removed the cork with his teeth, taking a large gulp, the cork still in the side of his mouth. Some of the wine dribbled down his chin, staining his beard as red as his cloak.

“A late decision, made entirely on my part I’m afraid,” Beric said, his tone implying it was not an apology. Judging by the man’s responding chuckle, this was a friendly kind of mockery he was used to.

“Very well, any particular reason for this sudden decision?” he inquired with a mumble, tying the half-empty wineskin to his belt before pressing the cork back. Beric gestured with a hand towards Sansa but he did not bother to turn around to look at her.

The man, however, looked over Beric’s shoulder, his eyes drifting over her quickly before shrugging. “A girl? That’s it? I met one just like her a few days ago, only younger — pretending to be a boy she was — but ya don’t see me preparing for some grand expedition. I let her go on her merry way.”

“I have my reasons, Thoros. Point is, we’re leaving now.” Beric’s voice brooked no argument and the man named Thoros shrugged, waving his men forward.

They were on the move within the hour, trekking through the thick undergrowth of the woods along a trail. Thankfully, the horses were surefooted and did not stumble much. Nevertheless, Sansa’s thighs were already beginning to ache, tense as she was, despite Anguy keeping her steady.

Beric and Thoros rode in front of her, speaking in hushed tones that none could hear over the clapping of hooves upon the ground. Occasionally Thoros would look back, fixing a stare at Sansa and not turn away until Beric gruffed at him to pay attention.

Sansa never met his gaze when he looked at her, only sneaking quick glances when he was engaged in deep conversation. She had thought much about his name and soon come to the conclusion that he must be Thoros of Myr — the red priest who had accompanied Lord Dondarrion on his quest to find and capture The Mountain so very long ago. _If Thoros is still alive,_ she had argued with herself, _then surely Beric could truly be who he said he was..._

She briefly considered telling them her true name — Lord Dondarrion had followed her Lord Father’s orders after all — but she quickly decided against it. Anguy’s words from the night before rang through her head — “ _we need the gold.”_

The fear of returning to King’s Landing was poison in her veins, a sickly thing deeply rooted inside her, and rationality seemed unable to defeat it. She knew in her heart that her brother Robb — _sweet, brave Robb_ — would do anything it took to get her back.

She was somewhere in the Riverlands, the sound of running water in the distance was unmistakable, and Robb’s army would not be too far away. She had heard people saying he was at camp in Riverrun only a fortnight ago and The Hound had even talked of taking her there before they were attacked. Surely Robb couldn’t have gone far.

It would serve Beric and his Brotherhood far more good giving Sansa back to her family, in exchange for the reward that The Hound had spoken of, than travelling to King’s Landing and selling her to the King, risking their own capture in the process.

Sansa _knew_ this, and yet she was afraid of saying anything. Part of her wished she truly was a beggar girl. Then none of this would have happened to her.

“We make camp here,” Beric announced and the company came to a halt, men already jumping off their horses to stretch their legs.

Sansa remained in her place on the mare, waiting until Anguy hopped off and lifted her back to the ground. Her legs almost buckled underneath her but she managed to stay upright, although a bit wobbly. _Only side-saddle from here on,_ she thought with a grimace and turned to look at Anguy.

He was lithe, not very strong in build, and she vaguely wondered how he had been able to lift her so easily. She didn’t know how much strength it took to use a bow and arrow, she had never tried it, but surely it couldn’t be that difficult? She shrugged to herself, a sad smile tugging at her lips. _That’s something Arya would think._

With heavy steps, she walked over to a large pine and sat down, leaning her back against the trunk to rest her sore body. She distantly watched some men build a small fire and lighting it before unpacking some food they had brought and handing it out. Her stomach rumbled loudly and she blushed in embarrassment, suddenly reminded of how long ago it was since she had eaten a proper meal.

She was given a piece of dried meat, what kind she did not know. It was sinewy and didn’t taste like much other than salt but she chewed it obediently, trying to ignore the heavy lump it formed in her stomach as she swallowed it down.

From the corner of her eye she saw Anguy speaking to Beric and Thoros, gesturing wildly with his hands while shaking his head but she couldn’t tell what they were discussing. When Anguy finally came to sit down beside Sansa, he was frowning deeply.

“Will we arrive at the tavern soon?” Sansa asked cautiously and Anguy snapped out of his thoughts, turning his attention to her, his face relaxing, turning expressionless.

“Aye. Soon.” He offered no further explanation and she didn’t ask. She simply kept chewing the dried meat, grimacing with each bite, before finally finishing it and taking a gulp from the wineskin someone passed along. _At least I’m not hungry anymore,_ she thought ruefully.

“Girl,” Beric suddenly called. Sansa knew he meant her simply because she was the only female in their company. Besides, he couldn’t call her by any name as she hadn’t given him any.

Beric gestured for her to follow him and she did so without arguing, although not without hesitating. He led her onto a narrow path, overgrown shrubbery almost completely covering the way. However, they did not need to walk far before it cleared up and they stopped. In front of Sansa stood a large weirwood tree, its pale limbs stretching towards the sky crookedly, covered in the bright red leaves, rustling in the wind.

She was reminded of the Godswood of home —the only thing missing was the carved face. Her eyes stung with unshed tears and she blinked to rid herself of them. She did not want Beric to see.

“Do you believe in the Old Gods?” he asked, taking a step closer to the tree but Sansa’s feet remained still.

“No,” she lied, her voice feeling distant as she spoke. “I grew up with the Faith of the Seven.”

“Ah,” Beric responded, eyes drifting over the tree slowly before settling on her. She did not meet his gaze. “Your first time seeing a Weirwood?”

She nodded mutely. _Another lie._

“Some folks say they got magic inside,” he continued, pausing as if expecting her to say something. “Do you believe in that?”

She shrugged dazedly. Her father had told her about the magic of the Old Gods and he seemed to believe it, she simply did not know what she believed herself. She had prayed endlessly for her father to be pardoned, but he had lost his head nonetheless. If the magic of the Old Gods was real, why had she been forsaken? Why wouldn’t the Gods listen?

A snap abruptly sounded behind her and Sansa whirled around, startled to see a man looking back at her, holding a piece of broken twig in each hand. Had he broken it deliberately to catch their attention? It seemed like a strange thing to do.

He dropped the pieces and took a step towards her and she instinctively cowered, trying to distance herself. She did not recognise him from Beric’s company. She had no way of knowing if he would harm her or not.

“I didn’t expect you to arrive this quickly,” Beric said and Sansa felt her heart stutter. Beric strode past her silently and she backed away further, her back soon pressed against the familiar white bark of the weirwood tree.

“What can I say? I’m efficient,” the man answered, his lips twitching in amusement before his eyes locked onto Sansa. His gaze felt heavy on her, like she was suddenly bound by chains, holding her still. “Is this the girl?”

Her heart was hammering loudly in her chest, her mouth suddenly feeling dry. She swallowed, trying to ignore the scratchy feeling in her throat. _Is this him? The man they are going to sell me to?_ she wondered. Something akin to panic was slowly spreading through her veins. 

He didn’t look like a tavern owner, not in the slightest. He was wearing a dark grey cloak, the fabric looking oddly stained in places, with the hood of it resting between his shoulder blades. Leather straps were wrapped around his torso to hold his weapons securely — _many weapons._

With a simple glance Sansa could already spot a longsword, several daggers, and a bow with a quiver half-hidden beneath his cloak. Strange leather gauntlets were also bound around his wrists, a flash of silver the only indication that there might be a blade hidden there too.

His brown eyes held flecks of gold in its depths, glimmering as he focused on her. He looked out of place in the woods. The neat way his beard was trimmed and the arrogant way he held himself made him look like royalty, ideal for the court of King’s Landing.

“Aye, that’s her,” Beric finally said and looked back at Sansa. “She could see the symbol. I still can’t.”

The man chuckled. “You’ll never see it, old friend. I’ve told you so. It’s not in your blood,” he said and narrowed his eyes at Sansa. “Now tell me, Beric, what in the seven hells are you doing with a Stark girl?”

Sansa’s blood ran cold and she stared back at them, wide-eyed, her legs trembling. _How did he know?_

Beric frowned at her. “Stark? Are your certain, Ezio?”

“It’s as clear as day. She could be no one else,” the man named Ezio responded with a laugh before he too frowned. “She’s terrified.”

Her fingers clawed at the tree to keep herself upright as she walked around it and prepared herself to run. Ezio took a step towards her, one hand outstretched. “I won’t hurt you, love.”

She whimpered as she stupidly fell over a rock, her back smacking down hard onto the ground. Her body felt too weak to stand up so she curled up into a ball, holding her head cradled in her hands.

“Please don’t take me back to King’s Landing,” she gasped, tears streaming down her cheeks. Dirt had gotten into her mouth. “I’ll do anything, please.”

The crunch of footsteps approached her slowly and her body tensed, instinctively readying itself for pain. She had been kicked before — by Meryn Trant after she’d failed to keep her mouth shut once. She knew how it would hurt.

Someone’s hand was on her shoulder, the warmth and gentleness giving her little comfort. “Shhh, I won’t take you back there.”

“Please…” she continued without truly listening to Ezio’s words. A thought struck her and she exclaimed, “My brother Robb will pay you if you return me to him! He’ll give you a reward, please Ser!”

“You brother…” Ezio whispered and his hand jerked back from her as if he’d been burned. Sansa dared to peek up at him through her tangled  hair, confused to see him looking defeated. He had his eyes closed, shaking his head slightly.

Fear somehow forgotten, she turned her head to look closer at him, and was startled when his eyes snapped open and he stared back at her, his mouth set in a thin line. He reached out his hand once again, palm up. Sansa jerked away from him, distantly noticing that Beric had left, and Ezio sighed heavily.

“I promise you, I do not wish you any harm.”

“How do I know?” she rasped, her throat raw from holding back sobs.  

“Look at me,” Ezio said, his voice commanding and stern, but Sansa did not understand what he was telling her — she was already looking at him. “Look closely,” he instructed further. “People can lie with their words, but not their eyes. The eyes speak true, if you are only willing to _look.”_

She focused on him, her heart still racing. His eyes glimmered with gold, mesmerizing like sunlight on a lake, and she found herself overcome by a sense of calmness. There was something familiar in his gaze, something that she simply could not distrust no matter how much she wanted to.

A part of her was angry — angry because she had learned to always expect the worst from people and now, from a single one-sided conversation, she felt as if she would trust this man with her life. She felt as if she’d known him forever.

“You’re taking me home?” she managed to ask, her voice soft and hopeful. She had asked that question so many times now that she wasn’t even sure what she meant anymore. Where was home? Was it still Winterfell, or did she only wish to meet her family again?

When Ezio shook his head remorsefully, her heart dropped, her stomach feeling heavy with the weight of it.

“To Riverrun then?” she continued, desperation a hard edge in her voice, and yet again Ezio shook his head.

“No, love,” he whispered. “King Robb and Lady Catelyn are dead.”

She stared at him for what must have been minutes, her mind struggling to comprehend what he was telling her, but she knew it was true. It was that infuriating feeling of trust that made her so certain. She hated it more than anything.

After a time, she finally started weeping, her tight strung body slumping down as a mournful exhaustion claimed her, only to be caught by Ezio’s arms and held to his chest in a useless attempt of comfort. Still, she accepted his embrace and did not protest as he carried her back to where the Brotherhood had set camp.

_~~~_

She did not speak as she left with Ezio the next morning. Anguy, Beric, Thoros, and the others all wished her farewell but she could not find it in her to respond. She didn’t ask where they were going, and she didn’t ask why she had to go with Ezio instead of being sold to the tavern owner, for now she was sure that Ezio certainly did not own a tavern.

She rode as she had with Anguy, much to her dismay as her legs started aching almost immediately after they departed, though she did not mind having Ezio’s steady body behind her to keep her from falling off. She did not have much energy to keep herself upright anymore.

He had told her the details of Robb and her mother’s deaths — how they had been betrayed by the Freys and slaughtered at what people started calling _‘the Red Wedding’._ At that point she had not reacted much, only cried silently, no sobs or screams of anguish.

She tried to distract herself as they travelled — she focused on the purl of distant rivers but was only reminded of how they had disposed her mother’s corpse; she counted the trees they passed but could only think of how many crossbow bolts had struck her brother’s chest; and she tried to hum along with the singing of birds but she heard only the Hound’s words, telling her she was trapped in her cage.

“Not curious about where I’m taking you?” Ezio asked softly.

“No,” she answered and Ezio sighed.

“I know it feels as if nothing will ever be alright again, but I assure you, it will. One day you’ll realise this made you stronger, and that sometimes people have to die for things to change.”

“I don’t want things to change,” she whispered, angry when her eyes started itching with tears again. “I want things to go back to the way it used to be.”

“You cannot change what has already happened,” he said calmly and Sansa leaned back against him, feeling weak again. She was just so _tired._ “The past is already written, the ink is dry, but you can always learn from it and affect what lies ahead.”

She nodded in understanding, dozing off only so she could to escape the real world for a little longer.

_~~~_

After a two day’s ride they reached a small harbour by the shoreline. The scent of brine and seaweed clung to the air, though not unpleasantly in Sansa’s opinion. It was cleansing in a way — chilly and sharp while still remaining soothing, like the gentle swell of the waves.

The vast jewel blue ocean stretched for miles before her, as free and wild as ever, and she felt her lips tug up into an involuntary smile as Ezio led her to a ship that was anchored to the most northern side of the harbour _._

The ship was called _‘the Jackdaw’_ and seemed to have gone through too much over the years. It was awfully battered — the sail was stitched together haphazardly in more than one place; the deck had scorch marks and stains of blood; the planks had clearly been replaced unevenly, as some looked brand new and some half-rotten; and it actually looked like one of the masts had broken once.

To Sansa, it was a wonder the ship was still afloat, but she stepped aboard nonetheless.

Ezio spoke to the crew members quickly, too low for Sansa to hear, before showing her to her cabin. He smiled in encouragement, instructing her to ‘ _wash that dirt out of her pretty hair’_ before heading back up on deck, leaving Sansa with a key so she could lock the door for some much needed privacy.

A tub had already been filled with warm water and she sank down in in gratefully, although without truly registering the long lost feeling of being clean. She washed methodically, almost as if in a daze. Her body felt too slow for her whirling thoughts.

 _I’m safe now,_ she thought, not sure if she even dared to believe it. Ezio had said he would take her away — _far away_ — and she wouldn’t have to look back ever again. She could leave all the horrors behind and finally start over. She had a second chance.

After dressing in the provided clothing — only a cleaner version of her previous attire consisting of pair of trousers and a blouse —she headed out, unconsciously seeking out Ezio’s company. She found him on the quarterdeck, speaking to what Sansa assumed was the captain as he stood by the ship’s wheel.

“There you are, love,” Ezio said as she approached, ruffling her hair in a way that painfully reminded her of what Robb used to do. “You look better already.”

She managed a weak smile before sending a hesitant gaze to the captain. His strikingly blue eyes were fixed on her and he grinned slowly, exposing one or two lost teeth. He ought to frighten Sansa but when she looked at him — _really_ looked — she felt the calm she had when looking at Ezio. He was familiar.

“This is Edward Kenway, captain of _the Jackdaw_ ,” Ezio announced, clapping him on the back in a friendly gesture. Edward had his sandy hair tied up in a knot at the back of his neck, although some strands had fallen forward to frame his strongly built face. He was tanned unevenly, no doubt from long voyages across the seas, and several tattoos were visible by his neck, disappearing underneath his shirt.

“A pleasure, Lady Sansa,” Edward said, his voice fittingly rough for his appearance. Sansa did not think twice about him knowing her true name.

“Thank you for your hospitality–” she hesitated, the word _‘Ser’_ on the tip of her tongue. “–Edward,” she finally said, throwing caution to the wind. She wasn’t sure he was the sort of man that cared about titles.

Edward nodded at her, his eyes shining with mirth. “I do what I can.”

“Don’t get cocky,” Ezio warned him in mock-anger before changing the subject abruptly. “You reckon Jaqen will be here soon?”

“Aye,” Edward responded. “Any minute now.”

As if on cue, the crew on deck exclaimed several greetings to the hooded man that stepped aboard, carrying a large sack over his shoulder. He practically leapt up the steps to the quarterdeck, effortlessly lifting the sack off him and putting it down at the captain’s feet.

“As you ordered,” he said and pulled down his hood, although his face remained half-obscured by his long reddish hair.

“What is the meaning of this, Jaqen?” Edward asked with a laugh as he bent down to poke the sack. Sansa was startled when it moved, squirming around as it emitted muffled sounds of discomfort.

Jaqen shrugged. There was a hint of a smile on his thin lips, his expression open and strangely inviting, yet somehow devoid of emotion at the same time. Sansa did not know what to think of him.

“Very well,” Edward sighed, swiftly unsheathing a dagger and cutting off the rope that tied the sack together. The instant the rope snapped, a person scrambled out, shrugging out of the fabric and ripping off the gag before jumping up to face Jaqen, poking a stubby finger into his sternum.

“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL WAS THAT?” she shouted, poking him harder, seemingly not even aware of the chuckles from Ezio and Edward. “I TOLD YOU I WASN’T GOING WITH YOU AND YOU STUFF ME IN A BLOODY BAG?”

Sansa’s legs felt weak. She was paralysed out of fear that it was all a dream. She didn’t even dare to blink. The girl’s voice was unmistakable, despite the years Sansa had gone without hearing it.

“Arya?” she whispered, her chest feeling tight, and the shouts of anger stopped suddenly as the girl turned around. Grey eyes that were too large for her narrow face widened with recognition as her mouth dropped open indelicately. Spittle was drying on her lower lip.

“Sansa…” Arya choked out, not giving Sansa any time to form a response before lunging at her, throwing her arms around her neck in a crushing embrace. Sansa stumbled back from the force of it, only saved from falling by Edward who steadied her with a strong hand on her back.

She did not know how long she stood there, holding Arya tightly to her, crying silently into her shoulder from relief, but eventually she let go. _I thought she was dead,_ she kept repeating in her head, in awe by how wrong she was.

She let her fingers gently drift over Arya’s tear-stained face, as if to memorize her features using more than just sight. She had always called Arya ugly — _horseface, I called her ‘Arya Horseface’—_ and she silently vowed to herself to never do that again. Her sister had never looked as beautiful as she did now. She had the look of a warrior.

Eventually, Ezio spoke, forcing Sansa’s attention back to the real world. Edward and Jaqen had already left, unbeknownst to both the Starks. “You both better head down to your cabin. We’ll be leaving for Valyria at sundown.”

“Valyria?” Arya asked, wiping her face and sniffling lightly before turning to frown at Ezio. It was clear that she was sceptical to his intentions.

“Your brother Brandon is there waiting for you.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. “Bran? But... I thought the Greyjoys killed him?”

“There are many things you do not yet know,” Ezio responded, a wistful glint in his golden-brown eyes. “But we will teach you.”

“And who are you people exactly?” Arya breathed out, not relenting in her suspicions.

“We work in the dark to serve the light,” Ezio said meaningfully, tilting his head forward, looking at them both with a piercing gaze that made Sansa feel as if he could see her very soul. “We are assassins.”

* * *

 

✦ [Beric's coin](http://img.tradera.net/images/287/244991287_ae98acd5-863f-4902-96e6-5e80b2bb4d70.jpg) ✦

✦ [the Assassin Symbol](https://vignette1.wikia.nocookie.net/assassinscreed/images/1/11/Assassin_Symbol.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20110524084520) ✦

✦ [Song: Wolf - First Aid Kit](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9XXc-AGbpw4) ✦

✦ [Adamantine Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/inarakel99/playlist/17h1rOULXlBabB0YDHqk1H) ✦

✦ [My Tumblr](https://etherina.tumblr.com) ✦

* * *

If you're wondering: the characters Ezio and Edward are both from AC ;)

Please let me know what you think in the comments <3


	2. Caution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the second chapter for you, loves! Special thanks to [petyrbaealish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/petyrbaealish/pseuds/petyrbaealish) for beta reading!  
> For your information - there is a time jump between this chapter and chapter one, but all you've missed will be told in flashbacks  
> Also, the playlist might seem... lacking... but that's because I add songs one by one after I've fully outlined the corresponding chapter. More will be added in time, I promise <3
> 
> Enjoy xoxo

* * *

  

_“Oh, father tell me,  
_ _do we get what we deserve?”_

* * *

 

The hall was deathly silent as she stepped through the large wooden doors, her sister a comforting presence by her side. The only sound was the soft clicking of footsteps echoing around them like ripples on a lake.

They came to a halt in front of the marble steps, both dipping down in a curtsy so low that their knees were close to touching the floor. She gazed up through her lashes at the mighty Iron Throne, its many blades protruding like thorns on a wild rosebush. The similarities ended there, for it held no beauty one could speak of.

The King waved a hand, gesturing for them to stand, and they obeyed his command without question. It was clear that Joffrey Baratheon’s arrogance had not diminished over the last ten years, only grown substantially. His hubris was like smoke around him, threatening to choke anyone who dared stand too close. His wrath was rumoured to be far worse.

“Welcome!” he exclaimed, leaning forward in excitement. He seemed thrilled at the prospect of having new toys to play with. “We are pleased to have you here.”

“We are pleased to have been invited, Your Grace,” she answered, her voice soft and submissive. She played her part perfectly, her mask fitting like a second skin.

“Alayne, I presume?” Joffrey asked, absently cleaning his fingernails on the sharp edges of the throne as he leered at her openly.

Alayne nodded in response, smiling softly in feigned admiration. Her true self was buried deep within her chest, tightly locked away until it was safe to emerge. Here, in the company of strangers and enemies, she was a different woman. Sansa Stark was dead in the eyes of these people and Alayne preferred it to stay that way.

She did not fear that she would be recognized. Her act was too well performed and her looks too altered. Her hair — once a shiny copper — was now raven black, and her features were no longer that of a child’s but instead those of a woman grown. Ten years was a long time and some forgot the past all too easily.

“You must be Nymeria then,” Joffrey continued, shifting his gaze to her sister.

“Yes, Your Grace,” she answered, ducking her head to avoid his scrutiny. To most it would simply look like she was shy but Alayne didn’t fail to notice the slip in Nymeria’s façade. Arya was showing through, visible through the tightening of her jaw and the sharp edge in her eyes.

Alayne silently begged her to regain control before anything bad happened. Arya’s personality had always been a force of nature once it was unleashed — wilder than the wind itself.

“Your connected chambers in the Eastern Tower of Maegor’s Holdfast have already been prepared, as by your father’s request,” Joffrey announced, shifting in his seat, staring at them both expectantly. He looked starved for praise, despite having the common folk bow to his whim each day and night.

“Thank you, Your Grace. You are most generous,” Alayne said, dipping into yet another curtsy. Nymeria did the same, eyes still firmly fixed downwards.

“I hope your time here will prove rewarding,” the King stated, grinning with satisfaction as he waved a hand at them, indicating that they were dismissed. “And please, feel free to explore!”

The sisters smiled pleasantly at him, Nymeria having mended the cracks in her mask, and walked out of the throne room calmly. The fabric of their dresses fluttered as the door slid shut behind them with a rush of air.

They continued past the guards stationed outside, not yet speaking a word to each other, their minds firmly fixed on the same destination.

_~~~_

“It doesn’t look right,” Arya said in a bitter tone, frowning at the great oak before them. “This isn’t a true Godswood.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Sansa sighed tiredly. She had gotten used to the disappointment that was King’s Landing a long time ago. “Weirwoods don’t grow this far south.”

“I hate it.”

Sansa closed her eyes briefly, stifling a huff of disapproval. She didn’t understand why Arya always did this — made things more difficult than they had to be. “To keep our cover you must control your emotions, Arya. You almost revealed yourself in the throne room.”

“I _had_ control,” Arya replied, still scowling at the tree, crossing her arms defensively.

“No, you didn’t,” she disagreed, feeling her head starting to ache. “We need to make a good impression. We’re supposed to be Ezio’s daughters and we must play the part convincingly.”

“Well, I’m not his daughter!” Arya exclaimed before lowering her voice to a mere whisper, as if to reassure herself. “I’m Arya Stark.”

Sansa clenched her jaw in irritation. “ _Not here_. Here you are Nymeria Auditore and you must be Nymeria all the time, even in your heart. Can you do that? Because if you can’t you must go back to Valyria. I’ll do this on my own if I have to.”

Arya looked down in defeat, shaking her head as if to clear her thoughts. When she looked up again, she was changed, her face warm and open. There was no sign of her previous exasperation. “I am Nymeria, sister. Who else would I be?”

Sansa nodded in approval, her smile both of pride and sadness. She knew how difficult this was — to hide her true self so deeply. Arya and Nymeria were as different as the sun and the moon, and yet one and the same.

She wanted to hug her, to hold her and say it would all be all right like mother used to, but she refrained. She wasn’t particularly good at comforting. Instead, she kept her gaze on the tree, giving her sister plenty of time to gather her thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” Arya mumbled after a while. “It’s just hard seeing them all, knowing what they’ve done to us — to our family.”

“I know. It’s hard for me too but this is bigger than us. Our revenge can wait… but the fight beyond the Wall cannot.”

“Winter is coming,” Arya responded with a wistful smile.

The sound of footsteps approaching from the edge of the woods abruptly reached their ears and Arya glanced at her quickly. “Already?”

“It seems so.” Alayne snorted softly, not certain if she should be amused or not. This kind of impatience was not what she had expected. “Evidently someone can’t wait to meet us. You know what to do, right?”

Nymeria rolled her eyes, smirking. “Of course I do. We’ve planned for this. You’re the one who’s good at talking.”

She nodded in response, taking a deep breath. The thudding of the steps were steady and precise, the vibrations like a heartbeat within the earth.

 “I didn’t really expect it to look like this. Did you?” she finally asked her sister when the person behind them was certain to hear them.

“No,” Nymeria answered with a slight frown.  “I thought they were supposed to be white?”

A man chuckled and they both spun around, feigning surprise by his sudden presence. Although the man’s hair was greyer now and the lines on his face had doubled since Sansa had seen him at the Hand’s Tourney so long ago, he was still very much the same.

He was just as slender as before, making him look taller than he truly was, and the calculating glint in his grey-green eyes was still gleaming with interest as he gazed upon them. There was no mistaking Petyr Baelish.

“You were expecting a Weirwood tree, were you not?” he asked, his voice made of honey and smoke — both rough and smooth, alluring and repulsive.

Alayne raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t a Weirwood then?”

He chuckled again, the sound a low rumble in his chest, and took a step towards them. “It’s a simple oak. You see, Weirwoods only grow as far south as the Riverlands. The climate here in the capital is far too warm.”

“Oh… right,” Nymeria said, looking back at the oak sheepishly.

“That’s disappointing,” Alayne said and huffed a laugh. “Well, I suppose we ought to thank you for informing us, Lord…” she drifted off, gazing at him expectantly.

“Petyr Baelish,” he introduced himself, bowing in a manner that made Alayne unsure of whether he was mocking them or not. “The Godswood might be disappointing but I can assure you there are plenty of other things worthy of seeing in the Red Keep. I could show you around if you wish.”

She smiled apologetically at him. “I wouldn’t want to impose on your time, my Lord.”

“If you were imposing I would not have offered,” he said and smirked.

“I’m actually planning on retiring early,” Nymeria spoke up, “but please, sister, don’t pass up this opportunity for my sake.”

“Are you sure?” Alayne asked, already knowing what the answer would be.

“I am,” she said and smiled at them both, inclining her head towards the man they called Littlefinger. “Have a good evening, my Lord.”

He smirked and bowed his head back, his eyes quickly drifting over her as she stepped onto the path and walked back to the castle. He then looked at Alayne, offering his arm which she took instinctively, tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow as they started walking in the opposite direction. She could almost feel the blood pumping through his veins, surging beneath her fingertips like the swell of the tide.

“An escort by the Master of Coin himself,” Alayne said coyly, smirking at his questioning eyebrow. “Father had us read about the King’s court before leaving home. I recognize your name. Apparently you’ve helped the crown out of several great debts," she explained.

“A small achievement,” he said humbly, the twitch of his eye the only indication that he was uncomfortable speaking of himself. It didn’t take a genius to realize he was a man of many secrets.

“Tell me,” he began, effectively taking control of the conversation, “what possessed your Lord Father to send you and your sister here? There are no conflicts in Volantis that you must be kept safe from, I hope.”

“Oh no, nothing of the sort,” she answered with a laugh. “He merely wished to give us an opportunity to see more of the world. As one of the Triarchs in Volantis he has many duties and feels as if we should be given the freedom he is often denied.”

The story was easy to tell, considering it was half-true. Ezio was, in fact, one of the three leaders in the City of Volantis. It was thanks to his position that Alayne and Nymeria had been so easily welcomed into King’s Landing. The King would never refuse possible allies.

Littlefinger nodded thoughtfully just as they emerged from the Godswood and entered the garden. It was far larger than it had been ten years ago, Alayne noticed. In fact, almost half the Godswood had been consumed by a grand hedge maze, surrounded by a myriad of flowers.

The colours of the blossoms ranged from the brightest of red to the deepest of blue, the most eye-catching being the vivid begonias, oleanders and aconites. It was a garden of dreams, one that a young Sansa Stark had often yearned for.

“This is beautiful,” she whispered, ducking under a vine that grew over the gravelled path.

“Queen Margaery had it made years ago. It was her first order as Queen. She spends much of her time here,” Littlefinger explained, expertly navigating them through the lush greenery, turning away from the maze. Alayne found it strange that he did not lead her into it. Surely it could do no harm? It nagged at the edge of her mind — a vexing uncertainty.

“I did not see Her Grace in the throne room this evening,” Alayne pointed out, gazing questioningly at Littlefinger.

“She prefers to avoid the King’s audiences.” He shrugged. “I’m presuming she finds them tedious.”

Alayne hummed in response before he continued, “It would not surprise me if she invites you and Lady Nymeria for tea within the nearest future.”

“I would like that,” Alayne said softly. “I’ve heard she’s very kind.”

“Indeed,” he answered.

He continued to show her around, pointing out the Tower of the Hand, the Sept, the Barracks of the Goldcloaks, and the Rookery.

During that time she responded excitedly to his stories of what seemed like every brick in the Red Keep, all while memorizing the sound of his footsteps, the different tilts in his voice, the mannerism of his confident mask. She wanted to make sure she would recognize him anywhere.

By the time he escorted her to her chambers in Maegor’s Holdfast, the sun was beginning to set, kissing the horizon with golden beams of light.

When they finally stopped outside her door she turned to him, smiling politely. “Thank you for taking the time to accompany me this evening, Lord Baelish. I am very grateful. I never knew there was so much history within these walls.”

“Think nothing of it, Lady Alayne. It was a pleasure.” His smile did not reach his eyes. “Do not hesitate to come to me if you need anything.”

He took her hand in his, bending down to kiss her knuckles softly, before turning his heel to leave.

When she walked into her chambers, Nymeria was already waiting for her, lazily draped over a crimson coloured chaise, eating fruit slices from a plate. Alayne closed and locked the door behind her before turning to her sister, unsure if she could speak freely or not.

“Don’t worry,” Arya said and sat up straighter, grinning. “I’ve checked every bloody inch of wall, floor and ceiling in both our chambers — no secret tunnels, listening vents, or peeping holes. Even the doors are remarkably soundproof.”

Sansa laughed in relief and started to remove the pins that held part of her hair back. “It seems Ezio was right, then.”

Arya made an amused face, setting the empty plate on a table before wiping her juicy fingers on her dress. “How does he even know that these chambers are safe?”

Sansa shrugged and went to open her trunk, which had been placed by the vanity table, and took out a hairbrush. “Find out anything else?” she asked in a more serious tone and combed out her long tresses.

“Not much,” Arya said and stretched, her back arching like a cat. “The guards pass by our doors every thirty minutes and they pass by the outer walls of the tower every hour. That’s pretty much it.”

Arya skipped through the door that connected their chambers, leaving it open, and started pulling out clothes from her own trunk. She returned dressed in a pair of black trousers and a grey shirt that Sansa was rather sure had been Jaqen’s before Arya stole it. It was far too big but she didn’t seem to mind.

“What about you?” Arya asked, flopping down on the chaise again, grimacing at the obnoxious Lannister colour.

Sansa pulled out her own clothes from her trunk and started to undress.

“The Queen avoids her husband’s audiences, probably because the punishments he executes are repulsive, and spends most of her time in the garden.”

“Makes sense.”

“The garden is a lot larger than it used to be,” Sansa continued. “They’ve even build a maze, having cut down a part of the Godswood to make room for it. Don’t get angry,” she warned, seeing Arya’s stormy expression.

She waited until Arya looked calmer before she continued. “When I walked with Littlefinger he seemed to steer me away from the maze. He wants to hide something from me, or us both I suppose. I don’t like it. I’ll go in there tomorrow to find out more.”

“Why not tonight?” Arya questioned, picking something from her teeth with her fingernail.

“Because there’s no need to sneak around in the dark in order to find out what’s in there. It’s not like it’s forbidden to enter,” Sansa said, rolling her eyes at Arya’s question as she pulled on her nightgown and started to braid her hair. “We shouldn’t risk getting caught for something so trivial.”

“Fine,” Arya sighed, looking a little sullen. “What about Littlefinger’s motives? Did he want something from you?”

“I think he just wanted me to trust him— perhaps find out more about us and Ezio — but mostly he wants me to think he’s my friend.”

Arya snorted. “He tried to impress you, then?”

“Of course he did!” Sansa exclaimed. “He told me all these stories about which legendary knight lived where and how _‘the Red Keep is red because the blood of Aegon’s enemies seeped into the stone’,”_ she said dramatically and Arya burst into a fit of laughter, almost falling off the chaise.

Sansa smiled and opened the balcony doors, breathing in the chilly air blowing in from the ocean. It was dark outside, the world dyed a dull shade of grey.

She whistled a long drawn out tone that pierced through the air effortlessly. It did not take long until the unmistakable silhouette of an eagle came into sight, carrying a leather bag in its beak. Sansa held out her arm and the eagle dutifully landed, careful not to pierce her skin with its long claws.

Its chest and head was covered in pristine white feathers, recently preened by the looks of it, and its wings were a contrasting dark grey, the same colour of the evening sky — _Stark colours._

Sansa took the bag from the bird and walked inside with it still perched on her arm. She tossed the bag to Arya who was still struggling to catch her breath from laughing.

“Our things,” she said simply and sat down on her bed —the sheets crimson red just like that awful chaise— and petted her eagle’s head. It clicked its beak in delight. “We have to find a place to hide them.”

Arya had moved to the floor and started to pull out the contents of the bag. She held up her black assassin cloak in front of her, inspecting it as if it could have changed since she packed it.

“I know,” she said distractedly and pulled out more things — their throwing knives, their daggers, their poison darts and last but not least, their leather gauntlets with the Hidden Blades strapped inside.

That particular weapon was a clever invention, one that had been modified many a times. With a single movement of one’s wrist, the blade shot out from the gauntlet, and it could be retracted the very same way. One could kill in a split second and never even brandish their steel to the enemy.

 _"The Hidden Blade has been a constant companion of ours over the years.”_ Ezio had said when he first showed them the weapon. " _Some would say it defines us — and they would not be entirely wrong. Many of our successes would not have been possible without it."_

“Under a floorboard?” Sansa suggested as a hiding spot for their gear but Arya shook her head.

“Too obvious. The roof maybe?” she suggested and started to neatly organize her weapons on the floor, leaving Sansa’s in a jumbled mess.

“If we manage to remove a tile we could put the things under it,” Sansa said and her sister hummed in agreement.

When all of Arya’s things were laid out in front of her, she put her hands on her hips, frowning. “Where’s Needle? And your sword?”

“I took them out of the bag. It got too heavy for Ivory to carry all of it,” Sansa responded calmly.

Arya nodded and made eye contact with the eagle. “Ivory, be a good boy and fetch our swords.”

He took off with a few heavy beats of his large wings, pushing away from Sansa’s arm easily, and flew out through the still open balcony doors. Arya grinned after him.

* * *

 

✦ [Ivory](http://nzbirdsonline.org.nz/sites/all/files/1200298White-bellied%20Sea%20Eagle.%20cropped%20JPG.jpg) ✦

✦ [the Hidden Blade](http://78.media.tumblr.com/06e9f6f419c0093789541d8621561928/tumblr_nvv9rr8F6b1rmfzd9o3_540.gif) ✦

✦ [Map of the Red Keep](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/75/6a/c0/756ac03116ba60a93857d2fe4ef046e2.jpg) ✦

✦ [Song: Way Down We Go - Kaleo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VFaRC3h5jcw) ✦

✦ [Adamantine Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/inarakel99/playlist/17h1rOULXlBabB0YDHqk1H) ✦

✦ [My Tumblr](https://etherina.tumblr.com/) ✦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The flowers Aconite, Oleander, and Begonia all have roughly the same meaning — beware, be cautious — hence the title for this chapter.  
> Thank you so much for reading! If you liked it, please leave a comment ;)  
> Have questions? Feel free to ask!
> 
> Some other things I'd like to adress:  
> 1\. Let's just ignore the fact that Petyr's mother was named Alayne, okay? Also, Nymeria is a very common name so Joffrey is not having wolf-Nymeria flashbacks when he hears it. He has suppressed that memory lmao  
> 2\. I use Alayne/Nymeria when they are "in character" (amongst others) and Sansa/Arya when they are themselves (alone), but you might have already figured that out ;)


	3. Royalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter here for you!!  
> Thanks to my beta [@petyrbaealish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/petyrbaealish/pseuds/petyrbaealish)! <3
> 
> Like this story? Subscribe to it and you'll automatically get an email when it gets updated! 
> 
> Please enjoy, xoxo

* * *

 

__

_“Touch my mouth and hold my tongue.  
I'll never be your chosen one”_

* * *

  

The air was warm and sweet as she breathed it in, the fragrance from the blossoms like honey on her tongue. Dew still lingered on the roses, glistening like freshly shed tears in the morning sunlight. The garden pavilion was beautiful this time of day.

Alayne sipped her tea tentatively, holding back a grimace as she swallowed. She didn't particularly like tea.

 _At least there’s no poison in my drink,_ she thought. She had made sure to check thoroughly. No poison was undetectable, least of all by her. She knew them all by heart. Jaqen had taught her well.

“So, my dear, tell me about your father,” Olenna broke through her thoughts bluntly, staring at her with inquisitive brown eyes.

“What do you wish to know, my Lady?” Alayne responded and placed her cup on the table, reaching for a lemon cake. Sansa loved them with a passion and Alayne liked them as well, although they were not her favourites. They were too sweet.

“Oh, anything that doesn’t bore me,” Olenna answered as she bit into the cheese she had requested to be served early.  

“Don’t be nervous. This isn’t an interrogation,” Queen Margaery assured Alayne with a laugh, subtly rolling her eyes at her Grandmother.

Margaery was as beautiful as they all said — her hair was hanging in chestnut curls down her back, her face was slim and her skin was tanned from the King’s Landing sun. Her eyes were kind, not the eyes one would expect to belong to someone wed to Joffrey, but there was a depth in them that Alayne could not decipher.

 “Well,” Alayne began, tucking a stray strand of raven hair behind her ear, “I’m sure you both know what his status in Volantis is.”

“Oh, yes. He’s a Triarch, is he not?” Margaery said and leaned forward in apparent interest. “Is it true that your lineage can be traced back to Old Valyria?”

“It is, Your Grace,” Alayne confirmed with a tinkling laugh which Margaery easily returned. “That is the very first qualification one must have to be a Triarch. The Volantene take great pride in the connection to the old empire.”

“I could imagine! Those bloodlines are rare,” Margaery said with sweet smile. Her Grandmother, however, narrowed her eyes.

“ _’The Volantene’_? Do you not consider yourself a part of the people?” she said, a questioning edge to her voice.

Alayne was startled by her own slip. She had practiced her story over a hundred times and already someone had found a hole to dig into deeper. Thankfully, lies fell from her lips like second nature.

“I’ve always felt more drawn to the Westerosi aspect of my heritage. My father is much the same, although he tries to embrace both sides, even combine them in some ways — he made his own House Sigil, as I’m sure you know. That isn’t very common in Essos.”

Olenna hummed in response, seemingly satisfied with the answer.

“Ah, yes — a silver eagle on a black field — not the most original sight, but certainly better than a golden rose,” Olenna said, ending her sentence with an expression of distaste, which she made a poor attempt of hiding.

Margaery ignored her Grandmother’s comment, no doubt used to her snide personality by now.

“He balances the cultures well,” she giggled. “Even when it comes to his children’s names! _‘Alayne’_ is Westerosi and _‘Nymeria’_ comes from Essos, no? You are like two sides of the same coin.”

Alayne laughed. “A fitting description, Your Grace.”

 Margaery smiled warmly. “Speaking of your sister, I do apologize for not inviting her to join us this morning. I simply wished for a chance to get to know you without distractions. Younger siblings have a tendency to want to prove themselves and steal away all the attention. I know I used to be like that.”

Alayne shook her head. “There’s no need to apologize, Your Grace. You’re quite right, actually. Nymeria can be a bit of a show-off when she has the chance.” She made an exasperated face, rolling her eyes in mock-irritation.

Alayne had received the invitation to have tea with the Queen early in the morning and Arya had been delighted that she could avoid it. She had apparently planned to explore… again.

“Is Nymeria your only sibling?” Margaery asked whisking a fly away with a delicate hand.

“She is, Your Grace. Mother and father thought two children was quite enough.” She distractedly brushed some crumbs off the table. “You have a sibling as well, do you not? An older brother?”

Margaery’s smile suddenly became strained, the mirth in her eyes fading visibly. She cleared her throat. “ _Had._ Loras died in a hunting accident a few years ago.”

“Oh,” Alayne breathed out, placing a hand on her chest. She had known of Loras’ death, of course. Ezio had told them the minute he received word of it and, although she did not particularly _want_ to bring up painful memories for Margaery, it could prove to be useful.

Ezio had expressed his suspicion that Joffrey had staged the accident, for reasons unknown, and if the Tyrells suspected the same there was a chance to form an alliance. It was a long-shot, but worth a try.

“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” Alayne continued but Margaery shook her head, dismissing her concern.

“No, no it’s alright. I’m fortunate enough to have a caring and loving husband to take care of me during such hard times. King Joffrey helped me mourn and I no longer feel so terrible when I think about Loras’ death. He died doing something he loved.”

Alayne nodded, smiling sympathetically, but inside she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of worry. Margaery was every inch a perfect Queen — kind, caring, gentle… yet stern, but only if she needed to be if the stories were true. She put the needs of her people first.

She was everything Joffrey was not.  Alayne had hoped she could rule — that she would be the one to unite the realm and fight for the Dawn. However, if she loved Joffrey…

Would she be devastated if he died? Could she truly take on the responsibility and act as Queen without her husband’s shoulder to lean on?

Alayne didn’t know. The uncertainty tasted like ashes in her mouth. She didn’t like not knowing.

“Now,” Olenna cut in, “let’s not speak of such tragedies. Tell me more about Volantis, Alayne. I’m curious.”

“Oh, well… The affairs in Volantis are better than ever, despite the steady decrease in slave trade.”

“Your father was the one to suggest the dissolution of slave trade, was he not?” Queen Margaery asked, curiosity glinting in her eye. She had apparently managed to escape the wave of sadness that just a minute ago had threatened to drown her.

“Yes, he was,” Alayne responded with a proud smile, the emotion genuine. Ezio and the rest of the Assassin Order had worked for years to create change. In the end, it was Ezio’s position in Volantis that had given them enough power to change things more permanently.

“Good of him,” Lady Olenna stated curtly. “It’s barbaric to have slaves. I never understood it.”

The sound of footsteps reached them and all three women turned to the servant who approached. He stopped at the entrance of the pavilion, bowing low for them. He looked nervous under their scrutiny.

“My Queen,” he addressed Margaery, “His Grace requires your presence in his personal chambers.”

 _Personal chambers?_ Alayne thought, holding back a frown.

Before Margaery could answer, Olenna cut in, “I was under the impression that we were not to be disturbed— perhaps I was wrong?”

The servant fidgeted with his hands and swallowed audibly. “His Grace was most insistent, m’lady.”

“It’s alright, Grandmother,” Margaery said pointedly, nodding at the servant who hurriedly walked away.

“Very well. I’ll go with you, dear,” Olenna sighed and rose from her plush chair. “I’m too old to stay out in the heat all day.”

Margaery then stood up too, as did Alayne. “I’m awfully sorry to have to cut our conversation short.”

“That’s quite alright, Your Grace. I can keep myself occupied. I was actually planning on taking a stroll through the hedge maze,” she said, smoothing out her skirt with her hands.

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Margaery giggled and took her Grandmother’s arm. “We’ll have to do this again, sometime. Oh and please, call me Margaery, at least when we’re alone.”

Alayne smiled brightly. “Only if you call me Alayne.”

She curtsied before parting ways with the two women, heading deeper into the vast garden. Birds chirped alarmingly as she passed the shrubberies they nested in, her steps brisk and focused. She slowed only when arriving at the destination.

The walls of greenery towered over her, making her feel strangely small, and the archway of sculpted stone made the entrance a menacing sight despite the colourful flowers around it. A lion’s head was carved at the very top of it, sharp fangs bared for all to see.

She stepped inside, having no fear of getting lost. She trusted her senses to lead her, as they always had ever since she’d learned to control them.

Following the murmur of purling water from a fountain she soon reached the centre of the maze, stopping abruptly as her eyes locked onto the statue before her.

The stone wolf lay with lifeless eyes on a plateau in the middle of a pond, a dozen crossbow bolts embedded in its ribcage. A statue of Joffrey stood above it, one boot pressing down on its head. The frozen expression of glee on his adolescent face brought back sudden memories of freshly made wounds and blooming bruises on snow pale skin.

Sansa swallowed down the taste of bile in her mouth, forcing her feet to move forward. It was clear who the wolf was — it was Robb, her family, who lay there broken, defeated. _Oh Robb... why?_ She felt hot tears pooling in her eyes unwittingly, spilling over the edge to run down her cheeks and coat her lashes. 

She had imagined Joffrey would do something like this— but it was one thing to imagine it and another to see it.

She sucked in a sharp breath, pushing down her emotions with ruthless force. She pushed them all down into a dark corner of her heart that she told herself to never revisit.  _Not now,_ she kept repeating to herself, _you can’t be weak now._

She sank to her knees at the edge of the pond that surrounded the monument, cupping the cold water in her hands to splash it on her face. Gazing down at her rippling reflection, she put her crumbled façade of Alayne back together, welding each piece with careful precision.

She loved Robb, she did, but his mistakes killed him. She would not follow him down that path. She would not be defeated as he was. She refused.

As she rose, she made sure her mask was made of solid steel.

* * *

 

✦ [The Statue](https://i.pinimg.com/474x/c0/f4/92/c0f49295619a6b78b8c448ef1ab1976e--game-of-thrones-screencaps-king-joffrey.jpg) ✦

✦ [House Auditore Banner](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/63/62/cf/6362cf686111aa3fe4048db39f0caa7e.jpg) ✦

✦ [Song: Broken Crown - Mumford & Sons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4W9l8ePxH28) ✦

✦ [Adamantine Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/inarakel99/playlist/17h1rOULXlBabB0YDHqk1H) ✦

✦ [My Tumblr](https://etherina.tumblr.com/) ✦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many canon references in this chapter omg lol  
> I chose the song Broken Crown because it honestly fits Robb's story SO WELL, I swear it's made for him.
> 
> How did you like Margaery and Olenna's first appearances? Let me know your thoughts<3


	4. Wolf Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a pretty long bit of backstory, so pay attention ;)  
> Want to get notified when I update? Subscribe to this story!
> 
> As always, thanks to my beta [@petyrbaealish!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/petyrbaealish/pseuds/petyrbaealish)

* * *

  

__

_“We’ll take them one by one.  
We’re kings of the killing, we’re out for blood”_

* * *

 

“Robb…” Arya said dully, her eyes fastened on the canopy as she lay on the four poster bed.

Sansa was staring out the open balcony, fiddling with a dagger to keep her mind occupied. “I know. It’s strange, isn’t it? How something so little can make your composure crumble.”

“Do you think he knows?” Arya inquired in a whisper, her hands balled into fists.

“Who?”

“Littlefinger. Do you think he knows who we are?”

“No, he doesn’t know,” Sansa answered quickly, refusing to even contemplate it. She huffed out a laugh at the absurdity. “That’s impossible. It’s been ten years since he last saw us.”

“Then why didn’t he want you to enter the maze? It seems like he didn’t want you to see the statue of Robb’s defeat. There must be a reason for that, right?”

She turned around and looked at her sister. For a second, she doubted her own judgement — _What if I read him all wrong? —_ but she quickly pushed that thought away. _It’s impossible,_ she repeated in her head.

Arya sighed at the lack of a response before getting off the bed, striding past Sansa on the balcony, her steps determined and swift. With one foot on the railing she pushed herself upward, grabbed hold of the edge of the roof, and swung her body up with ease.

“Why can’t we just kill them all right now?” she muttered, moving soundlessly on the tiles, crouching down as she reached the place they had hidden their cloaks and weapons. Sansa walked inside, a frown etching her face.

“We’ve talked about this,” she said weakly, knowing Arya could hear her even though she spoke so quietly. She was almost startled as Arya suddenly re-entered the room, throwing her stuff on the bed.

“I know, I know — _‘this isn’t just about us’_ — now get dressed,” Arya stated simply, already clothed in her own assassin garb, fastening her Hidden Blades around her wrists. Sansa hesitated, unsure if she wished to roam the city so soon. They had only just arrived, after all. Arya shot her a glare. “ _Now_. It’ll do you good.”

Sansa relented with a sigh and soon found herself cloaked in all black, the hood of her guise casting dark shadows on her face, the blades of her many weapons glistening in the candlelight.

Arya took the lead, throwing herself over the railing of the balcony, letting the night swallow her, and Sansa followed quickly behind. She landed with a soft thud on the ledge a few meters below and then started to climb down the tower wall. The stone was rough beneath her fingertips but not so much that it hurt. She had gotten used to it by now.

Bran had taught her how to scale a wall in Valyria. He had told her all the best tricks on how to get a good grip and then laughed every time she had fallen down. She wished he could have come with them, for advice if nothing else, but she knew he had to stay behind. He had duties, important ones, just as she and Arya had. Besides, crippled, dark-haired boys were not so common that it wouldn’t be suspicious if he had come with them.

People still remembered Bran Stark’s tragedy that day King Robert visited Winterfell.

Once she finally reached the ground she turned to face Arya, whose grey eyes shone silver in the dark. She whispered, “Any guards?”

Arya shook her head, smirking mischievously, before taking off again, her light feet barely making any sound as they hit the gravel. Sansa held back her laughter and broke into a run as well. Arya was right. This did her good. She hadn’t run like this in what seemed like ages.

They scaled the outer walls of the Red Keep quickly, the night shielding them from sight, and soon they had run all the way to the Street of Silk. Arya stopped on top of one of the rooftops, crouching down on the ridge.

“First night out and you’re taking me to a brothel, my Lord?” Sansa jested as she sat down beside her, feeling breathless. Arya had always been better at running.

“Well, of course. That’s my favourite place to be,” Arya responded in a mock-deep voice, smothering her laughter with her hand.

“Honestly though, any particular reason we’re here?” Sansa gazed over at the brothels across the street, her lip curling in disgust as she caught sight of a half-drunken man through the window roughly clutch a young whore to his side. She looked eager to get away.

“Because, as we recently found out, we barely know anything about Littlefinger — and he seems to know quite a lot about us.”

“He doesn’t know _anything_ about us. He just thinks he does…” she insisted, perhaps too forcefully, and sucked in a deep breath to calm herself.

“The point,” Arya said with a sigh, “is that we need to find out more about him.”

She nodded, biting her lip to keep a snide comment at bay. Arya was right, Sansa was just loathe to admit it. She had never doubted herself before, she had always felt confident and secure in her own skills, but now that it really mattered, she felt insecure.  Arya was suddenly the one with the clear thoughts and the good ideas. That wasn’t right. Arya was supposed to be reckless.

 _Keep it together,_ Sansa thought, shaking the unnatural jealousy away.

She focused on the street below, her sharp, silver-gleaming eyes scanning every detail despite the dark. She had no problems seeing.

_~~~_

_“Long before the Dawn Age,” Ezio began, “there lived a people known as the Precursors — beings similar to man in their appearance, but made of pure starlight, inhuman in their very nature. They had magic. Magic that gave them abilities, powers, unlike anything in the world. However, the Precursors eventually grew weak from the great burden of possessing these powers and they hid to regain their strength, sealing both themselves and their magic inside trees — trees in which they carved eyes to see the outside world.”_

_Sansa looked at him in awe. She knew she should dismiss his words as mere stories, that she should not take it to heart like she had with all the songs of her childhood, but she found that she could not. It was as if she was reliving her own memories as he spoke, each sentence building a strangely familiar world around her. It felt **real.**_

_“The Children of the Forest came years later,” Ezio continued, meeting Sansa’s gaze with a knowing smile. “They were born from the same earthly magic that gave the Precursors life, and they carved more eyes, more faces, into what later became known as Weirwood trees — I’m sure you’ve heard of them.” He laughed. “The Precursors observed their kin through the carved eyes, moving from tree to tree, forest to forest, always watching.”_

_“Were they Gods?” Bran asked, his chest heaving with the deep breaths he took._

_“No,” Ezio responded. “They simply came… before.”_

_He cleared his throat. “When the First Men arrived and proclaimed war against the Children of the Forest, the Precursors began to stir in their confinement, wishing to defend their kin, but they could not. The magic had turned on them, refusing to obey their wishes, refusing to let them leave their self-made cage. The magic was an entity of its own, you see, and it did not deem it vital to unleash its powers._

_“The war raged on and the Precursors could no nothing but watch through the eyes of the Weirwood as their kin was slain, one by one. Their hatred for mankind grew with each passing year until, one day, a woman approached one of the Weirwoods, cradling a small babe in her arms. He was a stillborn, you see._

_“The woman was crying, speaking a tongue the Precursors could not understand, and she fell to her knees in front of the tree. Soon, the people of her tribe joined her, stepping forward with solemn faces and tear-stained cheeks. They were few, no more than twenty, and there was not a weapon in sight. The Precursors were perplexed by this behaviour. They had never seen the First Men do anything but fight and kill._

_“The people gathered around the woman in silence and remained there for hours on end. When nightfall came, some of them finally started to move and slowly walked over to the woman, shaking their heads at her. Eventually, the woman stood up, leaving the child before the tree, and turned to leave.” Ezio’s gaze had turned distant, as if he was watching the story unfold right in front of him._

_“Just as she did so, The Precursors could feel the magic around them stir, reaching out with golden tendrils towards the people. They all stopped, eyes wide as they watched the forest light up. The magic flashed brightly once, like lightning striking the ground, without a sound, before dying down. As darkness surrounded the people once more, the babe started crying._

_“The woman rushed towards her child, picking him up to hold him tightly against her chest. The Precursors, transfixed by the event, reached out on their own to touch the babe, and found themselves startled by the fact that no confinements held them back. They were free, free to do as they pleased, free to take the magic back and tame it again. They could end the war now — they could destroy mankind in a single heartbeat.”_

_Ezio paused, blinking slowly before saying, “But they did not.”_

_“In truth, they were tired — so tired of the burden of their powers. It felt far too heavy now after centuries of living without it, but these people in front of them, these humans, they had been deemed worthy to carry the magic as well. It would be so easy for the Precursors to simply close their eyes, let themselves fade away and let the humans absorb their light — so that’s what they did._

_“The magic that held the life-force of the Precursors bound itself to the people in the forest that night, surging through their blood, settling in their very soul, turning them into what we are now. That night, two spiritual entities became one. ”_

_His gaze swept over them all slowly, glimmering with gold. He then swung his arms out wide, a playful grin spreading on his face. “Behold, the Assassins, children of two worlds!”_

_Sansa exclaimed a startled laugh at his dramatic flair._

_“What happened to the child?” Arya asked curiously._

_Ezio raised an eyebrow at her, smirking. “He grew up, as healthy as any other, and eventually became the one who ended the Long Night. You know him as the founder of your House —Brandon the Builder.”_

_He laughed at their expressions, slowly leaning forward to close Arya’s wide-open mouth with a gentle finger under her chin. “I’m aware this might have come as a shock to you, perhaps you don’t even want to believe it, but deep inside, you know it’s the truth. You can feel it, in every fibre of your being. The magic in your blood remembers. You must never doubt that.”_

_He smiled kindly at them. “You have yet to unlock the powers within you, but when you do, you’ll see it all with new eyes.”_

_~~~_

Sansa was sure she’d never get used to the vivid radiance, the pure sharpness, by which she was able to perceive her surroundings. Not once did the beauty fail to take her breath away.

Ezio had referred to this ability as using his ‘ _other eyes’_ , but it was far more than just an enhanced sense of sight. It was like using every sense at once _—_ to see sounds and hear shapes. At times, it was as if the world was aflame, although harmlessly so, glowing like moonlight on the ocean.

It was an ability inherited from the Precursors and it commonly lay dormant unless one was trained in using it, but certain children could sometimes show signs of it. Sansa remembered how she had run through the crypts beneath Winterfell as a little girl and seen things that were not truly there — footprints, drawings, sculptures. Her father had dismissed it all as her imagination. She could not blame him for that. Those visions had disappeared as she’d matured, after all. _Until now._

“I bet he’s filthy rich,” Arya muttered, making Sansa lose her focus.

“What?” she asked, blinking to return her eyes to their normal state. Using her _other eyes_ for more than a few minutes at a time usually gave her a splitting headache. She preferred to avoid that.

“Littlefinger’s mockingbird sigil is carved on every bloody door on the street,” Arya explained and gestured with her chin. “Look, there, right by the keyholes.”

Sansa refocused and easily found the delicate markings. The symbol was so discreet, almost unnoticeable. She wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it. He owned every esteemed brothel in King’s Landing, making him more powerful than most, but did not wish people to realize it? Then why carve in his sigil at all?

Petyr Baelish was an enigma, one that Sansa didn’t like at all.

“We should head back,” she said and stood, brushing imaginary dust off her lap.

“Why?” her sister exclaimed, frowning deeply.

“Because I just... I need to think. I need some peace and quiet.”

She turned to leave but Arya stopped her with a vice-like grip around her wrist. “Locking yourself in the Red Keep will only make you go mad! You’re not some little bird made to sit in a cage all day. You’re an eagle _— a wolf_ — made to be free.”

Sansa stared at her, stunned for a moment by the sudden memory of The Hound’s nickname for her, before she said, “That was quite a speech. Did you prepare it beforehand?”

Arya rolled her eyes and started tugging her along. “Doesn’t matter. Come on now, let’s go closer.”

“There’s nothing more to see!” she hissed, annoyed, barely refraining from yelling out loud in frustration.

“You never know,” Arya replied calmly. “Men spill plenty of secrets in brothels. We used to do this all the time in Volantis during our training, remember? We hired some pretty girl to get a man in bed, paid her quite a lot too, and then just waited until he started to talk. Men are such idiots.”

Sansa tried to cover her smile with her free hand but Arya looked back just in time to see her lips tug up into a grin. She laughed, knowing she’d won. “Gotcha.”

“Fine, fine, you’ve persuaded me to stay out a little longer,” Sansa said with an exaggerated sigh. “For old times’ sake.”

Arya finally let go of her wrist, but she kept walking. “You make it sound as if we’re as old as the Queen of Thorns.”

Sansa shrugged and followed her in silence until they reached the edge of the roof where an alleyway was separating two brothels. It would’ve been the perfect place to climb down and eavesdrop through one of the open windows, if only there hadn’t been people standing down there.

Wordlessly, both sisters crouched down, their forms easily blending in with the night.

“I paid for her!” one of the men in the alley exclaimed, pulling a young girl up from the ground by her hair. She whimpered, clutching her head in her hands. Sansa could see a trickle of blood running down her temple.

“I don’t need to pay to get what I want. Now, hand her over,” the other man growled, yanking the girl to him by her arm. She shrieked but was quickly silenced by a hard, back-handed slap.

Sansa stood up abruptly, her knuckles white as she clenched her fists. She glanced briefly at Arya who nodded in response.

Her mind didn’t fully register that she was moving but suddenly she was standing on the ground in front of the men. She could hear the men’s heartbeats steadily beating. The sound of it made her sick.

The man holding the girl by the arm opened his mouth to say something but got no further as Sansa flicked her wrist, making the Hidden Blade extend from her leather gauntlet, and thrust it right into his neck. He gurgled and Sansa jerked her arm to the side, tearing open his flesh in a single movement. She turned around, facing the other man just as he brought out a small knife. He held it up towards her.

“S..Stay back!” he shouted, voice cracking like he was an adolescent boy. Sansa swiftly ducked under the knife as he slashed it through the air and she effortlessly slit his throat as well. His body fell to the ground with a thud. The girl had fallen to the ground as well. She was sobbing with fright.

Sansa flicked her wrist again and the Hidden Blade retracted, disappearing from sight once more. She flexed her fingers, grimacing at the stickiness of the blood that coated them, and leaned down to the body. The man’s pockets were emptied quickly, as was the other’s, and Sansa then tossed the loot to the girl. With that, she climbed back up to where her sister was waiting, still crouched on the rooftop.

“We should head back,” she said once again and walked past. This time, Arya followed her without a word of protest.

* * *

 

✦ [Assassin Cloak](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/assassinscreed/images/2/20/ACS_Evie_Frye_Alternate_Outfit_-_Concept_Art.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20150806080724) ✦

✦ [Song: Monsters - Ruelle](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5DYUHQm46VI) ✦

✦ [Adamantine Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/inarakel99/playlist/17h1rOULXlBabB0YDHqk1H) ✦

✦ [My Tumblr](https://etherina.tumblr.com/) ✦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Just imagine the cloak being black, ok? lmao  
> Oh and just to clarify for you: the Street of Silk is a red light district in KL where the brothels are located, several of them are high-end ones for the nobility and rich ppl.
> 
> SOOO? What did you guys think of this chapter? I'd love to hear your thoughts<3


	5. Salient

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Salient; most noticeable or important
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter, loves<3
> 
> Huge thanks to my beta [@petyrbaealish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/petyrbaealish/pseuds/petyrbaealish)!

* * *

 

_“Sweet dreams are made of this.  
Who am I to disagree?”_

* * *

 

The two maids were whispering to each other, their hushed tones practically begging to be overheard in the otherwise silent room.

“I heard it was a devil!” one of them said, causing the other to drop the hairpins she was holding. She swiftly picked them up, her eyes darting around to make sure no one had seen. A third maid who was fixing the bedding glared at her.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lyra! Devils don’t exist!” she finally hissed as the third maid continued with her work.

“They do! That woman said she saw one. Didn’t you hear her, Jaena?” Lyra hissed back, taking some of the pins from her.

“May I ask what you are speaking of?” Alayne inquired softly and the girls squeaked in surprise, meeting her curious eyes in the mirror of the vanity table.

“I’m sorry, m’lady. We’ll be quiet,” Lyra spoke up, a blush staining the apples of her cheek, looking properly chastised. Alayne couldn’t hold back an amused smile.

“I didn’t ask you to be quiet, I asked to hear what you were speaking of. There is no need to apologise.”

“I… I’m not sure we are allowed to gossip, m’lady,” Jaena said, staring at her feet.

“It’s not gossip, Jaena. Not truly,” Lyra said low, elbowing her friend playfully in the ribs. “The King would surely want us to tell her, right?”

Jaena finally nodded, albeit unsurely, and started braiding part of Alayne’s hair as she spoke. “At the audience this morning, a woman came forth and told the King she had witnessed a murder last night.”

“It wasn’t just a murder,” Lyra chimed in, “she said she saw a devil kill two men right outside the Maiden’s Brothel.”

“I told you, there are no devils!” Jaena scolded, securing the braid with a pin at the back of Alayne’s head. “She said it was dark outside — her mind was probably just playing tricks on her.”

Alayne’s ears piqued with interest. “And what did the King say?”

Lyra bit her lip, a frown scrunching up her face. “He didn’t say much… only ordered Ser Meryn to take the woman to the back room.”

“She was awarded for her loyalty, then?” Alayne asked, knowing full well that there was a slim chance of that.

Jaena’s eyes widened. “The back room isn’t meant for rewards, m’lady.”

“None of us truly know what happens there,” Lyra continued with a shudder. “But there are… rumours.”

“Girls!” the third maid said sternly as she strode up to them, effectively ending the conversation. “Do not bother Lady Alayne any further. Finish your work.”

“Yes, Miss Edeline,” Jaena and Lyra answered in unison, their heads bowed. Edeline then looked at Alayne and curtsied.

“Please excuse their behaviour, m’lady.”

“Again, there’s no need to apologise,” Alayne responded kindly, not seeing the use in persuading the servants to gossip once again. She had heard enough.

The maids finished her hairdo within a minute and then silently took their leave, leaving Sansa to her own devices. As soon as the door shut behind them, she stood and headed to the door connected to her sister’s chamber. She knocked twice before entering, eyes settling on Arya who was hanging upside down by her knees from a wooden beam in the ceiling.

“What are you doing?” she asked, a hint of annoyance in her voice, and closed the door behind her.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m training,” Arya responded, her face starting to turn red in either embarrassment or exertion — the latter was more likely as Arya barely ever got embarrassed.

“You’re… training… in hanging upside down?”

“You never know when it might come in handy!” Arya exclaimed and heaved herself up with a grunt, moving to stand on the beam before jumping down, landing silently on her feet.

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Alright, fine. While you’ve been _training,_ I’ve actually been productive.”

“Oh really?” Arya asked mockingly as she walked into her washroom. Sansa could hear water splashing. She was most likely just wiping the sweat off her skin with a wet rag instead of taking a proper bath as she should. _Typical,_ Sansa thought.

“Yes _, really_.” She cleared her throat. “It turns out the girl we helped yesterday, she told the King what happened.”

Arya reappeared, her damp skin glittering in the sunlight, her face crumpled in a frown. “And?”

“Apparently he didn’t believe her and, as punishment, she was most likely… tortured. She’s probably dead now.”

Arya’s face fell and she looked at Sansa with pity. “I’m sorry.”

Sansa shrugged, feigning indifference to the situation.

Arya sighed and took a step closer, “I know how you feel about these things. You just wanted to help that girl — help her as no one did for you.”

“That’s true, but it doesn’t matter now… and someone _did_ help me in the end.”

“If it makes you feel any better, that girl is a right _idiot_ for telling Joffrey. She should’ve kept her mouth shut,” Arya muttered, but Sansa shook her head.

“No, she’s not an idiot. She must’ve been scared — we do stupid things when we’re scared.” She had done plenty of stupid things herself, so very long ago.

Arya scratched the back of her head uncomfortably, ruffling her naturally dark hair. She had let it grow out to her shoulders, which was quite a feat for Arya, as she loathed having it past her chin, and had no need to dye it as Sansa did. It grew naturally black.

“Well,” she said, “the Queen wants to meet me today.”

Sansa nodded. “I thought as much. You’ll do fine,” she added, noticing Arya’s uncertain expression.

“Thanks. It’s just… you’ve always had a way with words whereas I just don’t know what to say most of the time…"

“ _You’ll do fine,”_ she repeated adamantly. “I could listen in if you’d like, from one of the balconies behind the throne room.”

“Won’t it be difficult to hold your concentration for that long? You’ll get a headache if your senses overwhelm you.”

“I’ll take breaks,” she assured her sister with a small quirk of her lips.

Arya shrugged, shuffling her feet. “Okay then. Thanks.”

“No problem. Now, you should probably have a bath and change before venturing out.”

“Do I have to wear a dress?” Arya groaned and Sansa nodded, smirking at her sister’s childish pout.

“I’ll pick one out for you. Now go wash up properly.”

_~~~_

Alayne strode silently through the corridor, the hem of her skirt tickling her ankles, the scent of flowers like perfume in the air. She had just parted ways with Nymeria who was currently on her way to the gardens.

Although lies came more easily to Alayne than her sister, she wasn’t worried that Nymeria’s skills would be too unrefined to be believable. She knew that words were powerful, and she had been taught how to use them wisely.

She rounded the corner, heading towards the balcony she knew lay there, but stopped abruptly as she saw it was already occupied.

Cersei Lannister was sitting by a small wooden table, fiddling with a goblet as she looked out to the gardens below, her green eyes narrowed in what looked like distaste. She was clad in a gaudy crimson dress, as if she used her House colours as her armour, and her hair was falling freely around her shoulders. A light breeze passed by, causing the golden tresses to tangle around her neck.

With a sudden determination, Alayne continued forward, coming to a halt in front of the former Queen. There was no use in delaying a conversation destined to be had. Alayne couldn’t avoid Cersei forever, no matter how much she might like to, and she was certain Nymeria would do fine on her own without her listening in.

Cersei turned to her, a hint of a sneer on her lips. Alayne dipped into a polite curtsy before speaking. “Queen Mother.”

Cersei nodded in greeting. “Lady Alayne.”

There was a lengthy pause before Alayne gave up thinking Cersei might say something more. “May I sit?”

Cersei hummed in acceptance and turned her gaze back to the gardens, taking a long sip from her goblet. The smell of strong wine burned in Alayne’s nostrils as she sat down, even from a few feet away. “It’s a beautiful day, is it not?”

Cersei responded, “Today is much like any other day — beautiful isn't the word I'd use.”

“Oh,” Alayne said stupidly. It unnerved her to speak with Cersei, just as it had done when she was a young girl, but she could not say why exactly. Perhaps it was the glint of cruelty in her eyes that looked so much like Joffrey’s, or perhaps it was the sickly sweet way she told her lies and made her promises.

“Your sister is meeting with the Tyrells, I see,” Cersei said suddenly and Alayne followed her gaze down to the pavilion where Nymeria had just arrived.

“She is,” Alayne confirmed needlessly as a plan formed in her head. “She’s been putting it off for a while, I must admit.”

“Has she?” Cersei took the bait eagerly, eyes snapping up as if to pin her in place.

“Nymeria has never been one for politics — not that she’s made much of an effort to learn — and she doesn’t understand the necessity of it, really.”

“Surely she can’t be expected to learn without having someone to teach her,” Cersei said, holding her goblet in a too tight grip, trying to appear indifferent.

“Oh but she _has_ been taught. Our father wanted us to know as much as possible about the ways of the world — politics included,” Alayne explained carefully, noticing how Cersei’s eyes burned with sudden jealousy, and yet her face and posture remained unchanged.

Alayne continued, “Nymeria never really took an interest, but she didn’t necessarily have to either. Father said it was more important that I learn, as I might take over his responsibilities as a Triarch in the future.”

Cersei’s mouth twisted in a slight grimace. “The Volantene does not object to having a woman in such a high position of power? Such a thing is largely unheard of in Westeros, and most of Essos for that matter.”

 “Although it _is_ untraditional for a woman to lead, it is not impossible. One’s lineage is the most important aspect when it comes to the ruling of Volantis, not if you’re a man or a woman.”

Alayne could hear Cersei’s teeth grinding before she spoke, “Ah, I see.”

She downed the rest of her wine in one big gulp and set down the goblet with a heavy hand.

“Is it not the same here?” Alayne asked.  “If something were to happen to the King — which I pray to the Gods it will not — wouldn’t the throne pass to his sister? Or perhaps his wife? His Grace has no children yet, after all…”

Cersei shook her head. “Myrcella could never become Queen and rule on her own, and neither could the Tyrell girl. That’s not the way it’s done here.” There was a clear edge of bitterness in her tone. “Besides, Myrcella lives comfortably in Dorne with her husband now. I would not wish to take the simpler life away from her.” She swallowed hard.  “As for the matter of unborn children, it is not my place to speak of it.”

“To gossip is the last thing I want,” Alayne responded apologetically, continuing after a short while of contemplation. “You have a third child as well, do you not? Tommen, is it?”

“Yes.” For a second, it seemed as if she was about to smile, but then her face turned back to its solemn, bitter state. “He’s in the Eyrie, squiring for Harrold Hardyng. He wishes to become a knight, as most young men do.”

Cersei then stood up, making the chair wobble unsteadily behind her from the sudden movement. “I’m afraid I must take my leave.”

She walked off with brisk steps, not bothering to wait for a response.

Alayne stared after her, not very surprised that she left so quickly. To talk about power, especially power she did not have, had always been a sensitive subject to the former Queen. Sansa remembered what Cersei had said during the Battle of the Blackwater, only minutes before she fled the city with The Hound. Cersei had said things, things she never would have said if she were not angry — _and_   _jealous._

_“I should have been born a man... I’d rather face a thousand swords than be shut up inside with this flock of frightened hens.”_

Cersei’s weakness was her emotions, emotions that overpowered her cunning and often got the better of her. That was the key to controlling her, was it not?

She was powerful, but even the most powerful pieces could be swept off the board.

* * *

 

✦ [Battle of the Blackwater](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SbrQ7XaOtCU) ✦

✦ [Song: Sweet Dreams - Eurythmics](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tLmfSvy4rmo) ✦

✦ [Adamantine Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/inarakel99/playlist/17h1rOULXlBabB0YDHqk1H) ✦

✦ [My Tumblr](https://etherina.tumblr.com/) ✦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments and kudos if you liked it <3


	6. Speak No Evil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see, I know, but real life got really busy for a while, but I'm finally back with another chapter!  
> As always, much love to my beta [@petyrbaealish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/petyrbaealish/pseuds/petyrbaealish) <3  
> Enjoy ;)

 

* * *

 

_“The lion eats his fill  
and then the wolf cleans up the mess”_

* * *

 

The King had not announced that there would be an audience at midday, and yet as Alayne walked past the throne room only a short while after Cersei had left her on the balcony, there was music coming from inside the hall. Slow, sombre tunes echoed eerily out through the corridors and mingled with dozens of nervous, whispering voices.

Alayne’s curiosity seemed to tug her towards the gallery and she easily wove her way through the thin crowd, not stopping until she spotted the subject of the people’s attention. The young man was on his knees before the throne, a small instrument lying in his lap, his fingers trembling on the strings. The music had abruptly stopped.

Joffrey was sneering down at him, a mad glint in his bright green eyes. Slowly, a smile spread on his face and he began to clap. Naturally, the crowd followed suit.

As the tense applause finally died down, Joffrey asked, “Was that all?”

The man nodded shakily. “Y-yes, Your Grace. That was all.”

“No details you’d like to… add… to your little song?”

“No, Your Grace.” Tears were forming in his eyes already. Joffrey huffed and opened his mouth to speak but the young man cut him off. “P-please, Your Grace! I wrote it a long time ago, I meant no harm!”

“You dare interrupt me?” Joffrey snapped, rising a few inches from the throne, as if preparing to lunge forward and attack the singer. His face contorted in anger. “I am your KING!”

The man shrank back, now openly crying. “F-forgive me, Your Grace! I shall not ever do so again, I swear it!”

“Your tongue seems to be getting you into quite a lot of trouble.” Joffrey’s anger deflated in a split second, cold indifference taking its place. He sat back down calmly and waved a dismissive hand towards his trembling subject.  “Ser Ilyn!”

“No! NO! PLEASE! I BEG YOU!” the singer shouted as the King’s Justice unsheathed his dagger and held it to one of the fires in the hall. No one knew how to cut out a tongue better than Ilyn Payne, as he’d had his own tongue removed by the Mad King.

Alayne was staring at Joffrey, watching in growing horror as he began to laugh, the sound going straight to her bones. It was the laughter that had haunted her dreams for almost half her life, the laughter that had echoed in her skull as her father was beheaded.

Then, just like that, the laughter stopped.

Alayne found herself staring straight into his eyes, burning green like wildfire. He was biting the inside of his cheek, his fist clenched at his side. Littlefinger was whispering a final word in his ear before straightening and stepping away from the throne. Alayne had been too distracted to hear what was said.

Joffrey tore his eyes away from her, settling them forward once again, and held up a hand. Ser Ilyn stopped obediently, holding the hot, red glowing dagger just above the singer’s forcibly outstretched tongue.

“Release him,” Joffrey commanded and the guards immediately did so, letting the wailing man fall to the floor. He remained there, choking on his sobs, likely too afraid to get up. “I shall give you a second chance.”

He man raised his head and asked hoarsely, “Truly, Your Grace?”

“Yes,” Joffrey said with a grimace, sounding like a child forced to apologize after saying something bad. “We all make… mistakes… and I am lenient with my own people, I suppose.”

“T-thank you… Thank you, Your G-grace…”

Joffrey sighed, ignoring his thanks, and simply waved his hand again. The two guards who had previously been holding him in place now hoisted him up to his feet before escorting him out through the main doors. He was swaying like a drunken man with each step.

“That will be all for today,” Joffrey then announced, his lip twisting in a brief snarl. He rose from the throne and headed with stomping feet towards the back room. The present members of the Small Council — Varys, Maester Pycelle, Mace Tyrell, and Littlefinger— calmly followed. However, just before Littlefinger stepped through the door, a small child slipped past him, easily ducking under his arm and slinking into the room.

Baelish stopped for only a moment, eyes widening a fraction as he looked at the little boy, before continuing forward, letting the door slam close behind him as he entered last.

The guards were telling people to leave the hall and Alayne followed the crowd reluctantly, her nails digging into her palms. She was itching to go in the opposite direction, to follow through that heavy oak door.

Why had that child run in there? Perhaps more importantly, why had everyone _let_ him?

She didn’t realise it, lost in thought as she was, but her feet unbiddenly took her back to her chambers. Once there, she began pacing back and forth, her brow furrowed in concentration.

She tried to think of who the child might be. _Is it the King’s son_? she thought, but then shook her head. No, Joffrey and Margaery didn’t have any children… That was, of course, another source of worry. They had been wed for just over six years, and there was still no sign of an heir.

Perhaps the child was a bastard then? A bastard Joffrey could then legitimize? Sansa shook her head again. Joffrey was too obsessed with keeping his bloodline royal. He would never want a child whose mother was a mere commoner.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Arya entered, slamming the door behind her before she marching forward to grab Sansa’s upper arms.

“How much did you hear?” she exclaimed.

“What?” Sansa blinked.

“How much did you hear of what I said to the Queen?”

“Oh.” Realisation dawned upon her quickly. “I’m sorry but I met Cersei and thought it was of greater necessity to speak with her than to spy on you.”

Arya released Sansa, her jaw slacking as she buried her face in her hands. “Oh no…”

What had been slight apprehension for Sansa then quickly morphed into fear. “What happened? What did you do?”

Arya groaned and threw herself on the bed.

“Tell me!” Sansa pressed as her sister hid under a pillow.

“I think I messed up,” she mumbled and sat up and grimaced. “I might have let some personal… opinions… slip through.”

Sansa’s heart dropped to her stomach, so heavy she wanted to simply let it pull her body through the floor. Her blood burned in her veins. “What?”

Arya sat up, shook her head, and said meekly, “I don’t think the Queen suspects anything…”

“What did you say to her?” it was barely a whisper but it held the promise of deafening thunder.

 Her sister huffed and crossed her arms. “She said something like _‘Joff is so good to me’_ and I just couldn’t help but _mention_ how he kills innocent people, that’s all.”

Stifling her frustration, Sansa said patiently, “And how did she respond?”

Arya opened her mouth, paused, and finally huffed, “She excused herself and left.”

Sansa laughed humourlessly, a familiar feeling of dread settling in her chest. “I knew it. I knew you’d do something like this.”

“Something like what?” Arya countered with a growl as she stood up.

“You’ve just never been good at just doing what you are _supposed to do_. You always mess up.”

“That’s not true!” her sister yelled, her knuckles white as she clenched her fists in anger. “ _You_ are the one who never does what you’re supposed to! When we started training I was doing _everything_ right when you couldn’t even kill a pigeon! You even _cried_ when Ezio told you to snap its neck!”

Before Sansa could retort there was a flutter of wings, silvery grey feathers blocked her vision and a heavy weight settled on her shoulder.

Ivory clicked his beak and screeched loudly, making Arya cover her ears with her hands. Sansa turned her head to him, an insincere ‘ _thanks_ ’ on her lips, but she stopped as her gaze was met with the eagle’s milky white eyes. “Bran?”

Arya’s mouth dropped open and she quickly stepped closer, the fight between her and Sansa quickly forgotten. “He made it? He warged into Ivory all the way from across the Narrow Sea?”

An involuntary smile crept up on Sansa’s face as Bran clicked his beak again in confirmation. “I guess he did. He’s getting stronger.”

He then took off, flying out to the balcony where he perched on the railing, screeching for their attention.

“I think he wants us to follow,” Arya exclaimed and ran up to him, her eyes fastened on his form as he beat his wings and continued flying towards the gardens. She got as far as to put up a foot on the railing, preparing to hurry after the eagle, before Sansa pulled her back.

“Are you daft? Someone might see!” she hissed and grabbed her sister’s hand. “Come on, I know a better way.”

They sped through the corridors of Maegor’s holdfast, only slowing down briefly when passing the suspicious looking guards, and soon found themselves running on one of the gravel paths through the garden. Bran was flying above, guiding them off the path until they reached a high brick wall.

Overgrown bushes grew thickly around them, oddly blocking out the sun’s comforting rays and the bustling noises of the Red keep. A foul, rotting smell was coming from the small vent at their feet, iron bars covering the opening despite the fact that no person could possibly fit through it.

A sudden bang sounded from the vent, making the sisters jump in surprise, and was quickly followed by the rumble of voices. Sansa put a finger to her lips and Arya nodded in understanding as they both focused their senses on the distant conversation.

“Did I not make myself clear last time we spoke, Baelish?” The menacing voice of Tywin Lannister echoed around the cellar, low and threatening like a lion’s warning growl.

“You did, Lord Hand, and I can assure you I’m doing everything in my power to aid His Grace,” Littlefinger spoke with his usual silver tongue, but the click of his footsteps was meek in comparison to the mere presence of the old lion.

“Make no mistake, if my grandson causes my plans to fall into ruin, it is _your_ head I will have on a spike.” There was a pause, the cold statement hanging, untouched, in the air.

Littlefinger swallowed and calmly stated, “Naturally, my Lord Hand.”

Sansa could almost imagine his confident smirk, although the sound of his blood surging furiously with the rapid beat of his heart revealed the truth he was attempting to conceal — he was afraid.

“Now,” Tywin spoke abruptly, “who is this?”

It was not until this moment that Sansa heard the third heartbeat in the room. It was so faint, so unsteady, that it was more likely to be the flutter of a fledgling’s wings than proof of a living human being.

“It is Lady Elaina Cressey, of the Crownlands.” The girl took a deep, ragged breath at the sound of her name and coughed wetly. Sansa could smell the tangy copper of her blood.

“Send someone down here to end her pitiful life.” Tywin paused, interrupted by the agonized whine of the girl. “No Maester could help her recover from this.”

The girl was still whining in pain and fear, but it was never much louder than a whisper. No doubt she had lost her ability to speak after weeks of screaming.

“And make sure my grandson doesn’t get his hands on any more girls of noble birth. The last thing I need is another dead plaything whose family demands answers.”

“Certainly, my Lord Hand.”

The two men left the girl alone in the dark, awaiting her inevitable death.

* * *

 

✦ [The Singer's Trial](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=537wyCW5aAQ) ✦

✦ [Song: The Lion and the Wolf – Thrice](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aWPv6drVMIM) ✦

✦ [Adamantine Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/inarakel99/playlist/17h1rOULXlBabB0YDHqk1H?si=PpMF4O2ETM2GyChnGekw7g) ✦

✦ [My Tumblr](https://etherina.tumblr.com/) ✦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*The gallery is the place in the throne room where Sansa always stood in the show, like a "balcony" but inside.)  
> (*Audience is when the King holds court and listens to the people's opinions, makes official decisions, etc.)
> 
> The song for this chapter is supposed to be the song that the singer is performing. "You" represent the Realm, and "the Lion" and "the Wolf" represent the Lannisters and the Starks, tearing the Realm apart during the War of the Five Kings.
> 
> Please comment if you liked this chapter! I appreciate it so much and I respond to everyone<3


	7. Lady Idle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a huge thank you to my beta [petyrbaealish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/petyrbaealish/pseuds/petyrbaealish)!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter, loves<3

* * *

 

__

_“We are the sleepers, we bite our tongues._ _  
We set the fire and we let it burn”_

* * *

 

“The Keep has been delightfully calm these past few weeks, has it not?” Margaery said as she picked a blooming rose from a nearby bush, her fingers deftly avoiding the sharp thorns.

“It’s not always this peaceful?” Alayne asked softly, her eyebrows raised in question as she strolled alongside the Queen.

Margaery shook her head and laughed. “No. Usually it seems as if a thousand things are happening all at once — being Queen in those times is dreadfully exhausting. I can’t express how wonderful it has been to simply dawdle around, especially with you as company.” She winked, smiling playfully. “I hope our friendship lasts a long time.”

Alayne smiled back as Margaery linked their arms together. “I hope so too.” There was a short pause. “Out of curiosity,” she continued, a teasing smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, “why haven’t you spent more time with Nymeria lately? Do you not like her as much as you like me?”

Margaery gave her a sheepish glance and giggled. “I don’t dislike her of course. She’s a very sweet young girl, so full of life, always looking for an adventure, but I find that I’m not quite accustomed to her preferred way of making conversation.”

Alayne hummed in agreement. “I see what you mean. Nymeria has never been one for small talk, or even gossip for that matter. She has always been more interested in tales of grand battles, prophecies, and the like.”

In truth, Alayne was rapidly growing tired of small talk and gossip herself. Every day seemed to be the same with Margaery — they spent their time in the gardens more often than not, occasionally wandering idly around the Keep, and spoke about nothing but the weather or similarly trivial things.

Everything was moving too slowly for Alayne’s liking. Nothing was happening, for good or for worse. She felt stuck in a continuous loop of ineffectiveness, _uselessness._ She often had to force her mind to think about her carefully laid out plans, convincing herself that all this waiting was worth it. Rushing headlong into battle was reckless and she’d end up dead if she attempted it — _like Robb._

Margaery sighed, lips quirking in amusement. “I assume that, being the second daughter, she has been allowed to slack off a little in her etiquette classes, no?”

“Oh yes, it is terribly unfair.”

 “I know the feeling. I grew up practically surrounded by my cousins and, although they were expected to attend the classes, it didn’t really matter too much if their embroidery was not impeccable, or if their posture was just a tad too relaxed. I sometimes claimed the Tyrell name was my curse, forcing me to always strive for perfection.”

“Curse?” Alayne laughed. “Truly?”

“Indeed. You would not _believe_ how envious I used to be of the other girls’ freedom.” She giggled and shook her head at her own silliness. “Truth be told, I was envious of many other things as well. My cousin Ella was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen and I was terribly jealous of her looks. So, one day, I prayed that she’d catch a horrible skin disease. A week later she came down with porridge plague.”

“Porridge plague?” Alayne asked, feigning confusion. Of course, she knew there was no such thing as porridge plague, but the role she had to play demanded a certain amount of naiveté.

“Oh, you don’t have it in Volantis?” Margaery asked with sudden seriousness, a frown darkening her face. “Your skin starts to look like boiled oats and eventually your face falls off and you die in agony…”

“But that’s awful!” Alayne exclaimed in shock. Margaery nodded before snorting inelegantly at the success of her joke. Alayne couldn’t help smiling. “You’re only joking? I _believed_ you! Gods, I’m such an idiot.”

“Don’t say that, no you’re not,” Margaery assured kindly as her fit of giggles died down.

“What happened to Ella, then?”

“Oh, she grew up to be the most beautiful woman in Highgarden, married a handsome Lord, has _darling_ children, and lives in a castle by the sea. It’s terribly frustrating.”

Alayne raised an eyebrow speculatively. “She must be jealous of you now though. You’re married to the _King_. You have everything she does, only children are missing from the list, but that is only a matter of time, isn’t it?”

Margaery’s smile was suddenly strained. “I’ve… had no luck so far when it comes to having children of my own.”

“You’re still young, I’m sure there’s no need to worry,” Alayne said soothingly, placing a gentle hand on the small of Margaery’s back. “But, if you’d like, I could ask my Lord Father to send some herbs from Volantis. They’re said to improve fertility tenfold.”

“No, no, that isn’t necessary,” Margaery said all too quickly, a stray curl of her chestnut coloured hair falling over her shoulder as she shook her head.

“Are you certain?” she asked with a concerned frown. “It wouldn’t be a bother at all. I’d love to help in any way I can.”

“Quite certain,” Margaery responded with a tight lipped smile as she squeezed Alayne’s hand. It was clear she did not want to speak of herself anymore. “Speaking of children though, have you… found someone… to settle down with?”

Alayne scoffed and said, “Does it _look_ like I’ve found someone? I’ve spent most of my time here with _you_! I hardly have the time for men.”

Margaery burst into tinkling laughter, her eyes sparkling with mirth, no sign of her previous gloom left. “How am I supposed to know? King’s Landing after dark can be terribly mysterious…”

“Oh, please.” Alayne rolled her eyes, grinning widely.

“So, no midnight rendezvous you wish to tell me about, hmm? You haven’t snuck out of the Red Keep to meet someone special in Flea Bottom perhaps?”

“You’re insufferable!” Alayne exclaimed, glad that Margaery was blissfully unaware of the fact that her heart skipped a beat. The comment about sneaking out of the Keep simply hit too close to home. “For your information, I haven’t been outside these walls since I stepped off the ship from Volantis. Besides, if I _was_ meeting someone in secret I’d hardly do it in Flea Bottom!”

Margaery looked slightly shocked. “You haven’t been outside the Keep yet? Oh then you _must_ accompany me to explore the city someday! I won’t take no for an answer.”

“I’ll do anything for you, my Queen,” Alayne said mockingly and Margaery smacked her arm lightly.

“Hush it, you.”

_~~~_

“I don’t think…” Sansa began hesitantly, frowning down at the empty parchment in front of her, twirling the quill around with her fingers, “I don’t think she wants children.”

Arya’s head snapped up, her hands stilling in the process of polishing Needle. “At all?”

“At all.”

“I can’t blame her, exactly,” Arya scoffed, returning to her task with a shrug.

“How so?” She turned around in her seat to face her sister.

“Well, Joffrey isn’t what most people would call a dream husband,” Arya responded with a shudder, revulsion evident on her face.

Sansa sighed, shaking her head. “I just don’t understand it. Margaery has never said, or even _implied_ , that she even remotely dislikes Joffrey. She talks about him like he’s the man of her dreams, her knight in shining armour.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that she might be lying?”

 “Of course it has!” she snapped, patience escaping her for a moment. “The thing is… Jaqen told us everything there is to know about the Tyrells, even some of their most guarded family secrets. I just can’t imagine that they are the sort of people to actually support Joffrey, and yet they’ve remained in the capital for _years_ despite him being an awful King.”

“I suppose it is rather strange.” Arya frowned. “Not to mention that Loras died here. Surely they suspected that Joffrey had a hand in it but I don’t know why they wouldn’t do something about it.”

She put Needle back in its sheath and rested her chin in her hands. “Do you reckon the Lannisters have a bargaining chip of some sort?”

“But what would that be?” Sansa sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. Her head was starting to hurt. “Their remaining family members are all alive and well.”

“You sure? Joffrey might be–”

“Hurting Margaery?” Sansa interrupted, shaking her head. “Not physically I think. He always liked leaving marks on me — bruises, cuts — but the Queen looks unharmed as far as I can tell. She even wears sleeveless dresses! I could have never done that when I was trapped here.”

“Ask Ezio for advice. He might know what to do.”

“Yeah…” Sansa mumbled, turning back to the desk, dipping the quill in the inkpot.

_~~~_

She was barefoot, running through the dense woods at an alarming speed. She really should slow down — it was so dark, she couldn’t see anything. Her chest ached and the soles of her feet felt grimy, like she had stepped in mud. Odd, considering there was no mud in sight, only pale white snow, unforgivingly cold against her skin.

She stopped as dawn was breaking and only then noticed that the trees were gone, but the blood red leaves of a weirwood remained scattered around her. Her breath was coming out in hazy clouds. It was colder than she remembered. Granted, she hadn’t been in Winterfell for a long time but she could still tell this wasn’t a normal cold.

The sturdy walls of her childhood home were slowly crumbling to pieces, cracking audibly as the chill bit into the stone. Frost was spreading throughout the courtyard, growing like the roots of a particularly nasty weed.

A large dog was limping towards her from the ruined kennels. Heavy chains were wrapped around its body, slowing down its movement, but it did not stop to rest until it was at her feet. Once there, it lay down clumsily, resting its head on its paws.

She reached down, making sure to be careful as she did not want to scare it off, and scratched it behind the ear. The dog whined. It was a low, pitiful sound.

Warmth suddenly encased her and she turned her head to face the auburn fire that had been lit. Her nose crinkled as she caught the stench of blood emanating from it. She thought the dog noticed the scent too as it growled warningly but when she looked down she saw its head was turned the other way, staring at something in the distance.

A thick mist was closing in from the horizon. The dog growled again as the ground started shaking.

“What is _that_?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. It was silly to ask a dog a question but there was no one else around. Well, apart from the solitary crow circling high above her head, but it was too far away to hear her.

The mist was thundering closer and closer towards her by the second but she stayed put, watching its approach with morbid curiosity. She could hear screams now — battle cries and howls of pain mingling with the sound of clashing steel.

Just as the icy mist engulfed her, stinging her skin with frigid winds, she jolted awake, Jon Snow’s voice echoing in her head.

_“Sansa.”_

_~~~_

“Ivory has been gone for a week... He should be back by now, shouldn’t he?” Arya said, rubbing her hands with an unnecessary amount of soap in an effort to remove the grey smudges on her skin. The black hair dye had a tendency to stain.

Sansa was sitting at the foot of her bed, wringing excess water from her long tresses with a towel. Like Arya’s fingers, the towel had also fallen victim to the dark pigment. Sansa knew she’d have to burn it to avoid any suspicious attention, lest a maid find it and question its odd, dirty colour.

Servants were gossips of the worst kind.

“I’m sure he’s fine. We can’t demand him to fly across the Narrow Sea and back in less than a fortnight. We have to be patient.”

 “I’m tired of being patient,” Arya countered for the umpteenth time. Sansa fought the urge to roll her eyes.

“I’m well aware of your opinion on this, but until we receive word from Ezio and the Assassin Order we have to lay low.” Arya snorted humourlessly as Sansa continued, “Face it, Arya, we are too inexperienced to handle this on our own.”

“Oh I don’t know about that. I know how to slit a throat better than most,” her sister replied bitterly as she wiped her hands dry on her trousers. Her skin was scrubbed raw.

“Slitting throats is indeed _very_ satisfying,” Sansa began sarcastically, “but that’s not the way you get people to _work together._ We need to form a united front. Winter is coming, and the dead come with it.”

“Now you’re just quoting Jaqen.”

“That seems to be the only way to get you to listen.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Arya sighed in defeat. “But if something doesn’t happen soon, I’m going to lose my bloody mind.”

Sansa couldn’t help remembering what Septa Mordane had once told her — _be careful what you wish for, child._

* * *

 

✦ [Sansa and Margaery](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZY6R0IZ1lEI) ✦

✦ [Song: We Sink — Of Monsters and Men](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dFRywBkXgdA) ✦

✦ [Adamantine Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/inarakel99/playlist/17h1rOULXlBabB0YDHqk1H) ✦

✦ [My Tumblr](https://etherina.tumblr.com) ✦

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the plot thickens... ;)
> 
> Please leave comments and kudos if you enjoy this fic so far! I appreciate feedback so much <3


	8. Wanderer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY a new chapter ready for you, loves! <3  
> As always, a huge thank you to my beta [@petyrbaealish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/petyrbaealish/pseuds/petyrbaealish)!

* * *

  

_"These dead men walk on water,_  
_cold blood runs through their veins"_

* * *

 

Alayne wasn’t sure if she’d ever seen Cersei looking quite this pleased, and yet she looked far from happy. Her mouth was still set in a stiff, bitter frown and her shoulders remained tensely squared like always, but there was an odd glimmer in her wild eyes, a streak of delight.

Her gaze was firmly fixed on her twin brother, his hair as golden as his armour glinting in the sun. He trotted through the gates on his white mare, his equally white cloak billowing behind him, teeth flashed in a brilliant smile. Not even the presence of Tyrion Lannister riding behind him seemed to dampen Cersei’s spirits.

“Uncle!” the King exclaimed excitedly, arms spread wide as he crossed the courtyard with sprinting steps.

“Your Grace,” Jaime answered, climbing off his horse with ease to meet his nephew’s embrace. It lasted for only a second before Joffrey quickly stepped back, straightened his crimson red doublet, and clapped Jaime on the shoulder good-naturedly. No doubt he wished to cover up for his childish behaviour. Running to hug someone was not considered a very kingly thing to do.

Tywin gave his grandson a withering look of disapproval, complete with set jaw and eyes narrowed in distaste — one that Joffrey met with a glare of his own, albeit weak and paired with a slight, insecure twitch of his mouth. He looked just like the scolded little boy he was.

Hadn’t he changed at all since the war?

Words of welcome were exchanged with the arrivals. The whole ordeal was unnecessarily formal and stilted in Alayne’s humble opinion. The only spectators were the servants of the Keep, and they would not gossip. They had learned their lesson.

Lyra’s head was still mounted on a spike atop the walls of Traitor’s Walk, flies crawling through her rotten eyes as her mouth was frozen in a silent scream. The sight of her former handmaiden’s bloodied head was not the most upsetting part to Alayne. No, it was the fact that she, somehow, hadn’t seen this coming. She’d thought the servants’ loose tongues would be harmless, even if they did speak about devils and mysterious deaths in the night.

She was a fool.

As Jaime approached her she smiled shyly, as did Nymeria to her left. He bowed. “You must be the Auditore sisters. I hope your time here has been pleasant so far.”

“It has, my Lord. I’m Alayne, and this is my sister, Nymeria,” Alayne responded, feeling a blush creeping up her cheeks. Her blush was not from embarrassment however, as Jaime seemed to believe by the looks of his smirk, it was from anger. _He’s acting like he’s a bloody hero,_ Alayne thought, knowing that only the opposite was true.

Bran’s fall had not been an accident, and that was no secret in the Assassin Order. They all knew what Jaime Lannister did for love, and Alayne would never forgive him for it.

He smiled at them, taking Alayne’s hand to kiss her knuckles gently before doing the same to Nymeria. “A pleasure.”

Alayne had the sudden urge to cut off her own limb, even if it was her sword hand.

Tywin’s commanding voice broke the odd silence that followed as Tyrion stepped towards the sisters, “I do believe a meeting of the Small Council is in order.”

Jaime met Tywin’s gaze steadily. “Indeed, father. We have much to discuss.”

The Small Council took their leave without further inquiry, heading towards the Tower of the Hand with determined steps. Alayne noted with some surprise that even Tyrion joined them. It seemed unlikely that Tywin would have granted his youngest son a position in the council, particularly considering he hadn’t even let him introduce himself properly to the sisters, but Tyrion seemed confident he was to attend the meeting.

Cersei turned to make the walk back to Maegor’s Holdfast, but not before sending a fiendish glare in Alayne’s direction. Alayne paid it no mind. Instead she looped her arm together with Nymeria’s and followed the Queen Mother up the serpentine steps.

Of course, if she and her sister happened to get lost on their way back, who could blame them? The Red Keep was a maze of stairs, corridors, and the like. It was hardly their fault if they somehow wandered down to the tunnels beneath the Keep, only to end up somewhere in the Tower of the Hand.

Alayne was lucky Margaery was absent, for surely the Queen would have stopped them both from wandering off. Cersei obviously couldn’t care less though, as they both disappeared without her noticing.

It wasn’t long before they’d made their way to the tower, emerging from an old narrow staircase that, judging by the cobwebs, was a forgotten passageway intended for servants. Arya led the way, apparently still remembering how to navigate the halls, whereas Sansa did her best to not fall behind, plagued by wisps of visions as she was.

Everywhere she looked she could see her father, or more accurately, a vague, ghostly apparition of him. She did not know if it was her own memories or if the tower itself remembered. Perhaps it was like when she was little, when she could see spirits of the past haunting the crypts of Winterfell. She wondered if she would see her mother if she went back there, or perhaps Robb, or little Rickon.

She grieved all of them but her heart ached the most for her youngest brother. He had been so innocent. He did not deserve to be ridden down by Bolton’s men, left broken and bleeding alone in the woods. If they had known who he was — a trueborn son of Eddard Stark — they probably would have kept him alive and held him prisoner until he was no longer of any use to them.

That thought didn’t make Sansa feel any better.

“Up there,” Arya whispered as they stopped in front of a large door. She pointed to the ceiling. “We could climb up to that beam and listen through the wall. The shadows will cover us.”

Sansa nodded in agreement and made her way up the wall after her sister. Climbing in a dress was not ideal but thankfully it wasn’t very far. Someone tall enough might even be able to touch the beam if they jumped.

She took hold of Arya’s outstretched hand and swung herself up on the sturdy wood. It was almost too easy to eavesdrop.

Tywin calmly spoke, “The war is long over. The King is safe.”

“The King is never safe!” Jaime rebuked. Sansa could imagine Tywin’s piercing look.

Tyrion cleared his throat. “Perhaps it would be best to investigate the matter more thoroughly and, as I’ve just been granted the title of Master of Laws, I believe that task will fall to me.”

It was more of a question than a statement.

“Very well,” Tywin relented with a sigh, “but if you find _anything_ of importance you shall report to me immediately. I will not have you dallying around playing _knight._ Rest assured, you’ve been given your position out of convenience _only,_ and not because you have any sort of _skill_ in the matter at hand.”

“Of course, father,” Tyrion responded, a bitter edge sharpening his voice.

Littlefinger quickly added, “I doubt it is serious, my Lord. Many a man fight over whores, and the dark can be deceiving. I’m sure the girl simply has a big imagination. Or, _had_ , rather.”

“Quite,” Tywin mumbled. “Now that the matter is settled, would someone please inform me as to _why_ our city is suddenly overrun by commoners?”

“I have heard no such news!” Mace Tyrell spoke up, his tone gravelly and confused as if he had just woken up from a long nap. Knowing the Tyrell patriarch, that wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. His laziness was notorious.

“There have been whispers of a pilgrimage, my Lord. Led by a man who calls himself _‘the High Sparrow’_ ” Varys cooed softly, his velvet voice echoing strangely around the room.

“A pilgrimage?” Tywin asked, somehow managing to sound both bored and outraged at the same time.

Varys sighed, “People often turn to religious practises for comfort, or even for distraction, in troubled times. It is not uncommon for sudden _prophets_ to emerge.”

“We are not living in troubled times. Order has been restored and it’s been that way for the last five years.” Tywin was daring anyone to question him. The old lion took much pride in his efforts to maintain the illusion of peace he had created as Hand of the King.

There was a long pause.

Finally Jaime took a sharp breath and said, “Father, you cannot deny what is happening.”

“And what, pray tell, _is_ happening?”

“People are starving and...” he faltered. “...Maybe not here in King’s Landing but the Riverlands, the North, even the Eyrie is running short on food. It is no surprise that the people choose to turn to someone who can lead them towards better circumstances.”

“Do you expect me to empty our own stores in order to feed cities miles away? Is it better that we _all_ starve?”

“No, but –” Jaime started.

“But what? The harvest grows less bountiful each year and we barely have enough food for King’s Landing to last through the coming winter.”

“Winter?” Maester Pycelle said suddenly, a coughing fit claiming him as soon as the word left his mouth.

“Indeed. Even with the Starks gone winter is, unfortunately, still coming.” He spoke to them as if they were all fools. But to him, perhaps they were.

“Still, something must be done,” Tyrion drawled. “It’s chaos out there.”

“If you have a reasonable solution, I’m all ears, but if not I suggest you keep your moronic mouth firmly _shut._ All of you.”

“What about security?” Jaime said. “During our travels together, Tyrion and I witnessed several thefts, even in broad daylight. We could place out guards and thereby ensure–”

“ _Enough,_ ” Tywin growled and silence settled heavily in the room. “I had the impression that my _son_ would have the common sense to _think_ before speaking but it appears I was mistaken. You, as Captain of the Kingsguard, ought to know that the guards are stretched thin as it is. To send our army to fight petty crime would be an _invitation_ for an attack against the capital — from foreign forces or otherwise.”

“I...” Jaime started, sounding exasperated. “I was carried away, please forgive me father, I should not have questioned you,” he continued in a softer tone.

Tywin did not answer him, instead snapping, “Varys!”

“Yes, my Lord?” The Spider answered calmly, not sounding at all surprised to hear his name.

“Why did you not inform me of this ‘ _High Sparrow’_ and his pilgrimage earlier?”

“It started as a very small movement, my Lord, and I did not wish to waste your time. The High Sparrow’s increased popularity is very recent, no more than a fortnight old.”

“From now on I want _every detail_ regarding this matter,” he commanded sternly.

“Certainly, my Lord.”

“Before we part ways,” Tyrion began abruptly, “may I just inquire about the Auditore sisters?”

Sansa angled herself closer to the wall to hear better.

“Very well,” Tywin spoke. “What about them?”

“ _Why_ are they here exactly? I just find it a bit odd that they’ve actually stayed in this shithole for over a week.”

Tywin sighed in annoyance. “They are here because their father _asked them to._ As for _why_ Lord Auditore sent his daughters to spy on us instead of sending an envoy, is beyond me.”

“Spy?” Mace questioned, his chair scraping squeaking as he shifted nervously.

“I hardly think they are dangerous, Mace,” Jaime assured him. Arya snorted quietly in amusement. _If he only knew._

“Lord Auditore values family above all,” Littlefinger interrupted huskily. “I believe he trusts his daughters to the point that he will use their opinions of us to make a decision concerning the trading deal.”

“He hasn’t accepted?” Tyrion asked.

“Details are still being discussed but, if we manage to give the daughters a good impression, then Lord Auditore will be easily swayed.” His honeyed promises had everyone ensnared.

“Hey!” A sudden voice made Sansa look down in alarm. A guard was standing below them, squinting up as if it would help him see what was obscured in the shadowed corner of the ceiling.

“Your dress!” Arya hissed, pointing to the flowing fabric of Sansa’s skirt that hung loosely over the edge of the beam, fluttering in the light. She then proceeded to snatch it out of sight, foolishly not thinking of the consequences.

“What the...” the guard mumbled and called, “Who’s up there? I can see you moving!”

“I got this.” In a flash Arya held a dagger in her hand.

“Wait!” Sansa grabbed hold of her arm. “You can’t kill him! Someone will notice! Here, take this.”

She pressed a small dart into her sister’s hand. Arya responded with a wicked grin before tilting back, her legs hooked around the beam as her body swung under, stabbing the dart into the guard’s neck, quicker than a snake striking its unsuspecting victim.

He stumbled back, pressing his palm to the small puncture wound, too preoccupied to notice Arya heaving herself back up on the beam, disappearing from sight once more.

“What...” he rasped, confused, just as his body crumpled to the floor.

Arya turned to look at Sansa, an amused eyebrow raised. “I told you that skill could come in handy.”

“So you did.” Sansa rolled her eyes and then let her gaze wander back to the unconscious guard. “Help me move him.”

They both jumped down, landing on their feet with a soft thump, and Sansa quickly scanned the halls to make sure no one else had seen them. _One_ _witness_ _is bad enough,_ she thought.

“Ugh, why is he so heavy?” Arya grunted as she assisted in dragging the guard into an alcove.

They settled him with his back leaning against the wall, crossing his arms to make it appear as if he’d simply sat down for a short nap. Technically, that was the truth. The nap was involuntary of course, but it was a nap nonetheless.

“He’ll wake up in a few minutes, the sleeping drought I laced the dart with wasn’t very strong,” Sansa mumbled.

“You sure he won’t remember anything?” Arya asked.

“Positive.” She had been taught by Jaqen how to properly make use of poisons — ranging from mild sedatives to deadly toxins — and was confident in his teachings. He knew more about the subject than anyone else she’d ever met.

The sound of a door opening reached her ears and her head snapped up. She and Arya had just enough time to slip around a corner before the Small Council entered the hallway. They all walked out in silence, the absence of small murmurs painfully loud.

When they had passed, the sisters snuck out of the tower the same way they had entered — unnoticed, invisible to the world.

_~~~_

Later that night Sansa stood atop the walls of the Red Keep, cheeks flush from the chilly ocean breeze as she took in the view. King’s Landing was truly breathtaking at dusk.

 

Lamplighters made their way through the narrow streets, illuminating the city with a soft, warm glow, candle by candle. Some streets remained untouched however. Flea Bottom stood out in particular, a gloomy veil cast over the area menacingly. Sansa was almost afraid it would start spreading, strip away all light in the world until there was nothing but darkness left. It was silly, she knew.

Ezio had once told her, _“Fear not the darkness, but welcome its embrace.”_ She had learnt to do so, in time, but she often wished she could go back to the way it was before, back when she was oblivious to the alluring shadows. There was comfort in the dark, yes, but also something terrible, something she often chose not to ponder.

When obscured by the night’s dim shroud it was far too easy to forget that your actions had real consequences. Sansa never regret her kills, for her victims were always guilty of something, as the creed demanded — _stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent._ Still,there was something horridly beautiful about taking a life.

To watch someone's spirit drain from their eyes, leaving behind only a dull, empty shell, was mesmerising in the most repulsive of ways. The feeling was both pleasurable and sickening, a whirlwind of emotion that made your nerves tingle and your stomach flip. It was an experience synonymous with none other.

The darkness held that feeling within you, cradling it like a newborn babe, nursing it to health — fear and fascination entwined. And yet, despite its seemingly untameable power, even darkness had a master of its own. Choices could be made, temptation ignored, and in the end, one’s fate was not set in stone. To welcome the embrace of the dark could be done with ease, but to resist it was a different matter entirely.

The thing was, Sansa sometimes questioned if she had the strength to do so. As it was, only time would tell if she could withstand the storm or be swept away by it.

“Good evening, my Lady.” A voice broke the quiet and Alayne turned around.

“Good evening, Lord Tyrion,” she responded with a polite smile. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting yet.”

“Indeed, but now we have.” He brought her hand to his lips to place a gentle kiss on her knuckles. Unlike his brother, he didn’t have to bend down to reach. They both turned to admire the view. “Beautiful, is it not?”

Alayne sighed wistfully. “It has always been a dream of mine to see King’s Landing after dark.”

“And?” Tyrion probed. “You sound displeased.”

She wrinkled her nose and made a wry face. “It stinks.”

He barked out a laugh. “That it does, my Lady, that it does. But what else can you expect from thousands of people all living in the same crowded place?”

“It’s not so bad, really,” she admitted with a giggle, shrugging. “I’ve gotten used to it, but I bet my father will have quite a nasty shock when he gets here.”

“Lord Auditore is coming here?” Tyrion asked, raising his eyebrow — or rather, trying to raise his eyebrow. A white scar twisted like a rope right over his face, reaching from temple to jaw. Alayne didn’t know when he’d gotten that.

Tyrion had never been a fighter, that much she knew, and she distinctly remembered his face being void of any scars as she’d fled during the Battle of the Blackwater.

“He’ll be here for the Queen’s nameday celebration. He should send word to the Hand of the King soon, to make sure accommodations can be made in time,” Alayne answered, her keen eyes not disregarding the way he tensed at hearing his father’s title.

“Ah, I see.”

The conversation came to an abrupt stop and they once again focused their attention on the city below. They remained there until darkness fully settled and only then did they wish each other a good night, walking separate ways back toward their chambers.

Sansa had a feeling that the little lion could prove useful. After all, he hated his family almost as much as she did.

* * *

  

✦ [Song: The Angry River – The Hat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hfzrRdarnEs) ✦

✦ [Petyr x Sansa fanvideo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KHooIR3mxuE) ✦

✦ [Adamantine Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/inarakel99/playlist/17h1rOULXlBabB0YDHqk1H) ✦

✦ [My Tumblr](https://etherina.tumblr.com/) ✦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, if you like this fic I'd love it if you left a comment to let me know your thoughts <3 (comments can be made anonymously)  
> I really appreciate it!  
> You can also subscribe to this fic so you'll get an email whenever I update :)
> 
> The fanvideo is made by my good friend [@Gatinha15](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gatinha15/pseuds/Gatinha15) who I love very much, so please like/comment on her video and follow her on Tumblr [@flv-gatinha15](https://flv-gatinha15.tumblr.com/)! I promise you won't regret it ;)


	9. Pleasures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY! New chapter! Something tells me you guys will like this one... ;) 
> 
> HEADS UP THO!! There's nudity in the chapter pic, so maybe don't start reading this in public lol
> 
> Thanks to [petyrbaealish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/petyrbaealish/pseuds/petyrbaealish) for being my beta!  
> 

* * *

  

“ _I love to watch the castles burn,  
these golden ashes turn to dirt”_  

* * *

 

“Oh!” Margaery exclaimed, hurriedly making her way towards the little stand. The market was bustling with life, children’s laughter echoing down the streets, the sun burning bright above them. “Have you ever seen such delicacy?”

She held out a swathe of white silk, her fingers lightly tracing the embroidered blue flowers.

“You should buy it,” Alayne responded with a fond smile. The Queen was sunlight itself the moment she stepped outside of the Red Keep’s walls. She was simply not meant for confinement. In truth, not many women were, despite their husbands’ beliefs.

“I’m not sure… I’ve already bought so much,” Margaery protested with a helpless wave towards the servant boy, his arms full of all the fabrics she’d purchased just a few stands earlier. “But one more can’t hurt, surely?”

Alayne laughed. “You deserve it! After all, your nameday is in just a week.”

She bought the silk, leaving the merchant a Gold Dragon richer, even though the fabric only cost a Silver Stag.

“I can see why they love you so much,” Alayne broke the companionable silence, squeezing Margaery’s hand.

“Don’t exaggerate,” she responded humbly, smiling shyly down at her feet.

“I’m not! You care about your people, you truly do, and that’s a rare thing for a ruler.”

“I’m just doing what I can. Besides, I’m not as much of a ruler as my husband. He is the King, not me.” This time, her smile did not reach her eyes.

“I suppose,” Alayne sighed, sadly watching her friend’s soft, open face become veiled with a distant darkness.

There were times when she did not understand Margaery’s behaviour, despite her best efforts. When the Queen’s tied tongue loosened every once in a while, the words she spoke were like pieces of a puzzle, only the pieces didn’t always fit together. She had ambitions, a thirst for power even, but she showed it so rarely. Alayne wondered if it had ever been there at all, if it was merely a trick of the light.

“What is that?” Margaery asked abruptly, pointing at the mass of people gathering in front of them. Two men in the centre of the crowd were standing atop some wooden crates, using them as a makeshift stage. One of the men went down on his knees and lifted his face towards the sky, eyes wide and glimmering with apprehension.

The other man stood tall beside him, dressed in a modest brown shroud, a dagger held high in his hand. The sharp edge glinted in the sunlight like a star. He spoke, “This man has come to swear his loyalty and life to the Gods. The Sparrows hereby welcome him as a brother, granting him the blessings of the Seven.”

With that, he brought the dagger down, pressing it into the man’s forehead as if it was a quill on paper. Blood oozed from the wound, trickling down the man’s cheek, a red tear streaking his pale skin.

“Stop!” Margaery shouted, no longer standing by Alayne’s side, but making her way through the crowd with determined steps. The Queen was a fierce sight in her anger, that much was true, but the people parted more willingly thanks to the two guards flanking her, their armoured hands resting on the hilts of their swords.

Alayne made an attempt to follow, but she was quickly pushed back by people looking to get a better view of the commotion.

“Stop it! Can’t you see you’re hurting him?” Margaery had reached the crates and she stood glaring up at the man wielding the dagger.

“The Gods demand suffering,” he spat. “That is how they know your faith is true.”

Margaery shook her head. “This is torture! I won’t stand for it!”

“You have no right to question the Gods!”

A woman in the crowd then shouted in outrage, “You’re speaking to our Queen!”

“She can take her King and piss off!” another person countered and chaos ensued.

The guards drew their swords with lightening speed, shielding Margaery the best they could by cutting down any person unlucky enough to stand in their way. There was screaming left and right, people defending the Queen and people cursing her name, along with her husband’s.

The fighting got worse by the second, empty fists suddenly holding knives and axes, bruises soon becoming slashed open wounds.

Alayne hurried to the side, attempting to avoid the fight by keeping close to the walls, but it proved fruitless. The street was quickly filling with more people, blocking her way no matter how much she tried to push past them.

She needed to get to Margaery, to make sure she was safe, to make sure she stayed alive. The guards may have had swords, but they were only two people, and the Queen was not a piece Alayne was prepared to sacrifice in this game.

She suddenly felt a vice like grip around her arm and she was yanked aside, pulled into an alley before she had time to scream. Not that screaming was her first instinct in situations like these.

She twisted her arm out of her attacker’s grip, pushing the man away from her, sending them both crashing against opposite stone walls. He was lucky she was still very much in her role as Alayne — if she hadn’t been, he would’ve been dead already.

“Who are you?” she demanded, lower lip quivering, a perfect damsel in distress. The man was broad-shouldered and tall, dressed in a haphazard chain mail and a sword strapped to his side.

“M’lady, you must come with me,” he commanded gruffly, straightening to his full height.

“Why?”

“It is not safe here. Follow me.” He said nothing else but simply stalked down the alleyway, his steps silent compared to the noise coming from the street. Alayne, unable to suppress her curiosity, followed.

A voice in her mind was telling her to go back, to search for Margaery, but she ignored it. The situation was out of her hands, for the Queen was surely either dead or safely inside the Keep by now.

By the time the man came to a stop, the screaming was only a faded murmur in the distance. His square jaw tightened and he jerked his head towards a red door and said, “In.”

Alayne glared at him but obeyed, her senses sharpened and muscles tense, but she was not prepared for the sight she was met with.

Screams filled the air, but they were not of pain, instead they were mingled with pleasured moans and deep grunts. There was a wet, slapping noise that made Alayne want to wrinkle her nose in distaste.

In front of her there were two women draped across a chaise, one of them circling the other’s bare nipple with light touches of her fingertips. Naturally, they were both nude.

 _How did I end up here?_ She asked herself with a groan. _First I lose the Queen in a riot and then I follow a man into a whorehouse? I must be going mad, being so careless._

“Ah, Lady Alayne,” Littlefinger’s husky voice was, surprisingly, a welcome sound in the establishment. But then, almost anything was better than the sound of poorly faked orgasms. “I’m glad to see you arrived here safely.”

Alayne blinked at him as he approached. “You had me brought here? Forgive me for asking, my Lord, but why?”

“Word travels fast, and when I received news that a riot had broken out I made sure to send one of my men to see to your safety — and the Queen’s, of course.”

“Oh,” she replied, knowing full well that word did not travel _that_ fast. “I thank you, then. I’m afraid I lost sight of Her Grace in the commotion, but the Kingsguard was with her when I last saw her.”

“I do not doubt that they will keep her safe.”

 _I do,_ she thought.

“Now,” he held out his arm and she took it politely, “I shall escort you back to the Red Keep. I’m sure your sister is worried.”

He led her past the women on the chaise, paying no mind to their inquisitive looks, and through a red corridor. There were golden ornaments in the ceiling, and gold frames holding a wide range of erotic paintings covering the walls. It seemed the whole establishment was Lannister-themed, even going as far as to have a small lion statue in one of the common rooms they walked past.

She wondered what Tywin Lannister, a man holding much pride in his house, thought of this.

Littlefinger closed the door gently behind them as they entered a small office. The walls were, thankfully, not painted as garishly red as the rest of the building, but were instead a soft crème. A mahogany desk, with a matching cushioned chair, stood in the centre of the room, right in front of a painting of a wild river.

“Didn’t you say you were going to take me to the Keep?” Alayne asked, trying to not sound so accusatory, but Littlefinger only smirked.

“That I will, my Lady.” He strode over to the painting and, reaching to the top of the frame, pulled down a small latch, making the painting swing open.

Alayne let her eyes widen, though she was not truly surprised. King’s Landing was littered with secrets.

With a low chuckle, Littlefinger gestured for her to come forward, and they stepped through the hidden door together. Were it not for the lit torch he took from off the wall, they would have been completely enveloped by the darkness in the narrow pathway.

The air was cold and dank, but not terribly unpleasant. There were no rats scurrying around, nor any cobwebs in the way as they walked. It was clearly used often, most likely only by Littlefinger himself.

“Are you certain it’s safe in here?” she asked, her voice bouncing back oddly around her. “Should we not bring one of your men?”

“Quite certain,” he responded, pulling her closer by a fraction. “There are not many who know of this passageway, you see. In fact, there are hidden tunnels underneath the whole city, but very few know how to navigate them.”

She looked at him, raising an eyebrow even though she ought to have resisted. “Is it wise to show me this then, my Lord? I am, after all, a stranger to you.”

He chuckled again, the sound vibrating through his chest in a deep rumble. “You are no stranger, my Lady.”

“Am I not?” She swallowed.

He shook his head, “I have met your father.” Her heart skipped a beat in panic — _f_ _ather_ _—_ but then Littlefinger continued, “Only once, however, in my younger years. But Lord Auditore is not a man you easily forget.”

Alayne laughed softly, forcing her mind to relax. _He wasn’t speaking about your true father, he doesn’t know who you are…_ She kept reassuring herself, satisfied when she felt the tight knot in her chest loosen.

“Just because you know my father does not mean you know me,” she finally answered, her voice more breathless than she would have liked.

Littlefinger looked at her, mouth twitching in amusement. “Perhaps, my Lady, perhaps...”

He said no more and Alayne turned her gaze forward, pondering his statement. Baelish was a thorough man and had surely researched the Auditore family long before Alayne had even arrived in King’s Landing. She wondered how much he really knew about her. _Or, rather, how much does he think he know_ _s_ _?_

The man who had taken her to the brothel had been shadowing her, she was sure of it. Even though word did travel fast in the city, it was not possible that he had gotten to her that quickly. She should have noticed him following.

_Careless…_

Questions were tumbling around in her head as she absent-mindedly stroked her thumb over Littlefinger’s silk clad arm, enjoying the texture of the soft fabric. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him smirking and then stopped her tiny movement instantaneously.

“Do...” she cleared her throat self-consciously, “do these things happen often? Riots, I mean.”

Littlefinger opened his mouth, then closed it, seemingly looking for a good answer. “Every once in a while. Troubled times are approaching, and the people are growing anxious.”

“Troubled times? How so? Is there nothing that can be done?”

“The seasons are changing, and food supplies are scarce,” he said, his mouth tightening. “The King is doing everything he can to solve the problems arising.”

“I heard people shouting how terrible he was,” Alayne murmured innocently, almost to herself. “Is that true?”

Littlefinger laughed, but it was humourless. “No, certainly not. The common folk see what they want to see. They are afraid of what the future holds, and so they pick someone to blame their misery on.”

It was a lie, Alayne knew, and yet spoken by Baelish’s silver tongue it sounded truthful.

“I suppose that makes sense...” she said, voice wavering falsely as she bit back a secretive smile.

If he believed Alayne mistrusted the King, he would expect her to ask Ezio to call off the trading deal. The court would be in disarray, fighting amongst themselves over how to mend the burned bridge to the Auditores. It would be easier to read them, to pick apart their goals, one by one.

Even in chaos there was calculation.

“You’re not convinced of the King’s good nature?” Littlefinger’s brow furrowed.

“I have not yet decided.”

They stopped at the top of the long staircase they had just climbed and Littlefinger grabbed the handle of the door they were faced with. He paused, narrowed eyes drifting over her, speculating.

“You’re hiding a sharp mind, my Lady,” he husked, leaning in close to whisper in her ear. “Do be careful. There are people in this world who would love nothing more than to burn people like you down.”

A shiver ran down her spine. She couldn’t help herself, but answered, “If it doesn’t burn a little, then what’s the point in playing with fire?”

He smirked again before opening the door, blinding them both with light.

_~~~_

“Ugh, don’t tell me you actually _enjoyed_ talking to him?” Arya made a disgusted face, throwing a yellow leaf to the wind. They were sitting atop the tower roof of the Rookery, faces turned to the glimmering horizon, watching the full moon kiss the sea. They were cloaked in darkness, unseen in the night despite the pale blue glow covering their surroundings.

Sansa sighed, rolling her eyes. Of course she hadn’t enjoyed their conversation, such a thing was preposterous. “All I’m saying is that he’s more interesting to talk to than Margaery. I’ve had enough of pointless walks through the garden at this point.”

“So you’re giving up on her? You’ve been working on her for weeks, have you found nothing useful?” Arya was frowning deeply, voice tinged with worry.

“She talks sometimes... but the things she says are only fragments. I can’t get a grasp of the bigger picture.” She tiredly rubbed her eyes. “Margaery is hiding something, something important, but I don’t know what.”

“It’s not unthinkable that she hates Joffrey just as much as we do. She could just be faking her loyalty...” Arya said, drifting off, the unspoken question ringing loudly in Sansa’s head. _But why?_ She didn’t have much to gain as the realm was falling into shambles.

“Littlefinger is easier to talk to, then?” Arya inquired.

“I believe he can be.” Sansa smirked to herself for a moment before schooling her features. “I think he’s willing to talk, if one can provide something useful in exchange.”

“So… What does he want?”

“That’s what I’ll try to find out.”

Ivory then flew into sight, landing with a heavy beat of his wings by Sansa’s side. A piece of parchment was tied to his leg, the invisible ink gleaming into existence as her keen eyes focused upon the written words.

“ _The forest hides many strange creatures, but you can tell the wolves I’m home.”_

 

* * *

  

✦ [Song: Play With Fire - Sam Tinnesz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MkpH0J0mjgw) ✦

✦ [Adamantine Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/inarakel99/playlist/17h1rOULXlBabB0YDHqk1H) ✦

✦ [My Tumblr](https://etherina.tumblr.com/) ✦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ezio is on his way!!
> 
> Did you like this chapter? Please comment and leave kudos, it keeps me going! <3  
> Do you like this story? Subscribe to it to recieve an email every time I update!


	10. Uprooted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbh, this chapter is not my favorite but I think it turned out quite alright anyhow!  
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> As always, huge thanks to my beta [petyrbaealish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/petyrbaealish/pseuds/petyrbaealish)!

* * *

 

“ _When you’re cursed you’re always hoping  
that a prophet would be grieved”_

* * *

 

The double doors swung open, golden light streaming into the room like a blazing fire. Only the dark silhouette of a man in the doorway soothed Alayne’s light strained eyes.

He strode in calmly, his steps firm and precise, heels clicking steadily against the stone floor. The grace with which he held himself, powerful as it was beautiful, was only befitting of him. He was shadow made flesh, everlasting, indestructible — even when encased by the bright tendrils of the sun.

It lasted up until he stopped before the throne, when the doors slammed closed behind him and the air turned dull as the light was shut out once again. Only a piece of it remained, caught in his flashing eyes, glimmering with gold.

“Your Grace.” He bowed, one hand placed lightly over his chest and the other resting on his lower back. _Show-off,_ Alayne thought as she observed him, biting her lip to hold back an all-too-wide grin.

“Lord Auditore,” Joffrey responded with a careful nod, looking as if he was afraid his crown would slide down his head and land on his gaudily clad lap. “Welcome.”

“Thank you, I am most pleased to be here.” He bowed again. “I wouldn’t miss The Rose Queen’s nameday for the world.” His gaze perused the throne room quickly, catching Alayne’s eye for a split second. He gave her a discreet wink before he turned questioningly to the King. “Where is the Queen, if I may ask? I should very much like to congratulate her in person, and thank her for her inviting me here, of course.”

“I’m afraid she is not available at this moment,” Joffrey responded forcibly after a slight pause, a vein in his forehead making its existence known.

“Very well.” Ezio shrugged half-heartedly. “I suppose I ought to find my beloved daughters, first and foremost, before searching for anyone else,” he added with a quirk of his lips.

“Quite right.”

“Your Grace,” he murmured in parting, turning on his heel at the King’s wave of dismissal, heading up to the gallery. Alayne hurried in his direction, mumbling apologies as she pushed past the ladies that crowded the small space.

She reached him the moment he came to the top of the stairs and she was immediately swept up in his arms. He spun her around once, his breath tickling her ear as he chuckled, before releasing his embrace, taking her by the arm as they exited the room.

“You didn’t meet me by the harbour as I stepped ashore.” He frowned at her in jest. “You hurt my feelings.”

She laughed, elbowing him playfully in the side. "Stop it. You know why Nymeria and I had to stay in the Keep."

"Indeed. Six guards escorted me here, can you imagine?" He sighed, rolling his eyes. "The riot must've been quite a sight considering it's still deemed too dangerous to step outside the walls."

Alayne hummed in agreement, holding up her chiffon skirt with her free hand as they walked up a flight of stairs. “The Queen shut herself in her chambers afterwards, and no one has seen her since.”

“Are you worried about her?”

“Of course I am.”

The gaze of a passing guard lingered just a tad too long on them. “Let’s not speak of that now,” Ezio mumbled. “Where is your sister?”

“In her chambers. She said she wasn’t feeling well, but I think that’s just an excuse so she could avoid attending the King’s audience.”

Ezio scoffed in amusement. “Sounds like her. She never did like politics.”

In Alayne’s chamber they only had time to shut the door before a small figure came rushing towards them, throwing herself into Ezio’s arms. He laughed, stumbling backwards from the impact, but he held Arya just as tightly as he had Sansa.

“She has your enthusiasm,” Sansa said, smiling.

“I noticed,” Ezio chuckled and set Arya down, ruffling her hair with one hand.

“My hair was messy before you stuck your dirty hand in it,” Arya said with a smug grin.

“I don’t doubt it!” He ruffled her hair once more and then, after a small sigh, gave them both an expectant look. “Well, I’m all ears. Tell me about the autumn storms.”

_~~~_

Hours later, after discussing the events of recent weeks in almost unnecessary detail, they had dinner in Ezio’s chambers. They were situated just across the hall from Sansa’s and Arya’s joint rooms in the Eastern Tower, and Ezio had been very clear that they could speak freely there as well.

“I’ve been wondering about something,” Arya mumbled, stuffing more potatoes into her mouth. In private there was no real need for etiquette, but Sansa wished she’d at least _try_ to eat in a proper manner. Arya pointed her knife in Ezio’s direction, raising an eyebrow. “How did you know the Eastern Tower wouldn’t have any hidden tunnels? Or, you know, listening vents? Or peeping holes?”

“You wish to know my secrets?” Ezio asked, wiping his hands on a napkin before holding his hands up in the air. “You will have to torture me.”

Arya made a mocking face and stuck her tongue out at him. “Come on!”

“I refuse to talk, and that’s that.” He ducked, laughing, as Arya threw a piece boiled carrot at him. “Where are your manners?”

“Oh, shut it!”

Sansa looked at her sister pointedly. _Manners indeed._

“Very well, you’ve convinced me,” Ezio then relented with a dramatic sigh, grinning. “The truth is, I have _connections_.”

“Be a little more specific, please,” Sansa laughed. She was, after all, intrigued as well.

“I trust you remember your dancing master, Arya dear?”

Arya’s eyes widened. “Syrio? He was an assassin?” Her expression turned stormy. “Why didn’t you tell me!”

“Calm yourself,” he responded, apparently not phased by Arya’s swift change of mood. “He was _not_ an assassin. Merely an acquaintance of the Assassin Order.”

“You still should have told me.”

“You never asked.” He shrugged. “Anyhow, Syrio took the time to map out most of Maegor’s Holdfast. The Eastern Tower was, naturally, not devoid of secret tunnels. The Targaryens were far too paranoid. However, the tower only had two hidden pathways, unlike the rest of the castle which holds dozens.”

“Had?” Sansa questioned and Ezio grinned.

“It was almost _too_ easy for Syrio to seal them off. It is as if they never even existed.”

“And no one noticed?”

“Evidently not. The tunnels aren’t exactly used very often, and certainly not those within the holdfast.”

She nodded in understanding, placing the last bit of roast chicken in her mouth.

“Is Syrio alive?” Arya abruptly asked, the little spark of hope in her eyes dying as Ezio shook his head.

“I’m afraid not. He was skilled with a sword but all battles cannot be won. The Order lost not only a valuable ally, but a friend that day.”

Arya bit her lip, frowning in disappointment.

Ezio continued, “Let this be a lesson, love, to not believe yourself infallible. Even the greatest of us shall die one day.”

Arya swallowed hard and looked down at her empty plate, her fork scraping against the porcelain.

Sansa could tell the words hit her hard. She sighed and reached for her goblet, taking a small sip from the wine. _Arbor gol_ _d._ After a time she spoke, desperate to break the sudden uncomfortable silence. “Have you received word from the Wall?”

Ezio looked up at her and frowned. “Lately, no. Our contact, Frostfinger, died from an infection about a moon’s turn ago. It took the Order a week to find out, and another week to find someone suitable to replace him.”

“Who is the replacement?”

“One of Beric Dondarrion’s men. I do not know his name, but Beric was confident that he was trustworthy. He should arrive at the Wall any day now.”

The silence returned after that, but it was not quite has heavy as before.

_~~~_

The purl of running water, paired with the sunlight reflecting upon the surface of the pond, made this place feel oddly peaceful. This was only the second time she’d visited the monument but, thankfully, this time without tears.

The walk through the hedge maze on her way to the centre had been filled with trepidation. Her palms had been sticky, her feet hesitating with each step, and her chest feeling tighter and tighter the closer she got. Her lack of reaction upon reaching her destination had been almost disappointing.

It wasn’t as bad as she remembered it. That first time she’d ventured to the statue she hadn’t been prepared. That time it had looked far too real — the lifeless body of Grey Wind under Joffrey’s boot; Joffrey’s well-aimed crossbow bolts embedded in the wolf’s ribcage; _Joffrey’s smile._ It was the smile he’d always greeted her with upon calling her to the throne room. It was the smile that she’d seen in her nightmares for years.

The second time seeing the statue didn’t feel the same, just as the second time she’d arrived in King’s Landing hadn’t felt the same either. Her composure was solid, her mask firmly in place. This time, she felt nothing.

_Good,_ she thought just as she heard footsteps approaching. Alayne turned, mindful to not look as bitter as she felt, and saw Petyr Baelish rounding the last corner of the maze in slow, languid strides. His gaze flickered to her, his mouth twitching into a smirk, before settling on the statue.

“It’s a phenomenal piece of art, is it not?” he said, clasping his hands behind his back as he came to a halt beside her.

She moved her head to observe the statue as well, choosing to ignore the fact that she had been staring at him longer than she should’ve. “A bit boasting, I would say.”

“Nevertheless, it takes skill and plenty of patience to make hard rock appear soft to the touch. The sculptor did a wonderful job.”

Alayne wasn’t terribly anxious that he’d found her here. He didn’t know who she truly was, she was sure of that now. That first time she’d spoken with him, when he’d steered her away from the maze, he’d only been doing what he’d been commanded to do — try to make her trust the King, trust the court, so that Ezio would want to sign the trading deal.

This statue wouldn’t exactly make her believe the King was as humble as she’d been told, especially not if she’d seen it her first day in the capitol.

Still, she didn’t bother pretending she liked Joffrey. At least not with Baelish. She was playing a different game with him now, a game that had started in the tunnel leading from his brothel, but the rules were still unclear to Alayne.

There was a pause, then she asked, “Are you interested in art?”

“Not particularly, no,” he responded and let his eyes wander over her. “But I can appreciate a fine… _specimen_ … when I see one.”

She swallowed, annoyed as she felt heat rise to her cheeks. It was hard to ignore his huskily spoken words. _No, not hard, bloody near impossible,_ she corrected. His tongue was nothing if not silver, his lips sweetly caressing each sentence as he spoke, building palaces out of paragraphs. Had he always had such finesse, or was it practise?

Alayne released a shuddering breath, determined to not be swayed by his distractions, and changed the subject as she looked back at the statue. “A wolf is an odd choice for a pet.”

Baelish blinked, looking stumped for a second before his smirk returned. “Perhaps, but the Great Houses are not known for their modesty when it comes to their sigils. The Tyrells surround themselves with roses, the Lannisters dress almost exclusively in reds and golds, and there was a time when you couldn’t go a day in the presence of a Stark without hearing them say _‘_ _w_ _inter is coming’._ ”

She fought a shudder as he murmured her house words.

“Besides,” Baelish continued, “are you truly one to judge?” He waved a hand above them and Alayne looked up to see Ivory circling the sky just a few feet over the walls of the maze.

She snorted, and the air was suddenly less suffocating. This felt like familiar territory, as if she finally had a script to follow.

“Point taken.”

“Where did you find him? I’ve never seen anyone keep an eagle as a pet before.”

“My father gave him to me and my sister a few years ago. We’ve both grown rather fond of him. His name is Ivory.” She watched as Ivory beat his wings heavily, landing upon the statue’s crown, talons clicking against Joffrey’s sculpted forehead.

Baelish raised an eyebrow. “Ravens are more common.”

Alayne smiled. “True, but they are not as effective.”

“How so, my Lady?” he inquired, looking quite amused. “If ravens are so useless, why haven’t we replaced them?”

“I never said they were useless.”  _Gods, am I teasing him?_ She was horrified by that notion, but couldn’t bring herself to stop. Her smile only widened. “I’m just saying that eagles, unlike ravens, are experienced with flying overseas, making them a far better choice if one desires to contact someone in, say, Essos.”

She looked at him steadily, satisfaction pleasantly tingling in her chest as he pursed his lips in thought. For some odd reason, revealing that she knew something he didn’t made her feel giddy. Like she had won in some childish contest.

“Another plus” she continued, “is that no one ever thinks to shoot them down, should they be looking to intercept any messages.”

The second the words left her mouth she wanted to snatch them back.

“Why would you worry about such a thing, my Lady?” Baelish smirked once again, and Alayne forced herself to appear confident.

“I’m not worried about that,” she denied with a smile, though not as playful as before. “I just think that one can never be too cautious.”

Baelish nodded. “Indeed.”

_~~~_

“I was told this audience would be particularly interesting,” Alayne murmured in Ezio’s ear as they looked out over the sea of people in the throne room. Unsurprisingly, Nymeria heard her as well.

“Who told you that?” she asked with a knowing, if disapproving, gaze.

“Littlefinger,” Alayne answered simply, ignoring Nymeria’s warning look. Her sister didn’t like the fact that she had spoken with Baelish again.

“Did he mention why it would be interesting?” Ezio cut in, his voice so low she could feel his chest vibrate with each word.

“No.”

“I suppose we’ll find out soon.”

The bustling of the crowd died down as Joffrey entered through the main doors, dressed in a golden doublet with rubies sewn into a twisting pattern around the collar. From a distance, one might even say it looked like drops of blood.

He strode forward quickly, smirking as people bowed and curtsied for him. He paid no mind to Margaery who entered after him, uncharacteristically dressed in a crimson red dress, her crown looking heavy on her head.

They both sat down in the front of the room, Joffrey on the Iron Throne and Margaery in a cushioned seat on his left side.

The small council members entered one by one, Tywin taking the empty seat on Joffrey’s right side as the rest of the members remained standing. Joffrey then waved a hand, and a man was brought in by two guards.

Alayne paid rapt attention, but it seemed this was not the interesting part Baelish had been speaking of. The man had been accused of stealing tomatoes from the market, and Joffrey sent him to the cells. _Strange,_ she thought. _Usually he takes his sweet time with criminals, but today he’s awfully impatient._

This went on for half an hour, people being brought in for petty crimes and Joffrey dismissing them within mere minutes of them entering. Alayne could feel herself tensing the longer she stood there, waiting for something to happen.

When the doors opened for the umpteenth time that evening, Alayne felt more than saw Baelish look up at her. She met his eyes and caught the way he tilted his head in a discreet nod.

She almost jumped in surprise as Joffrey gave a shout of delight. “Finally!”

In walked an older man dressed in a dark brown shroud, his white, unkempt hair like a wispy halo around his head. He did not seem frightened by Joffrey’s malicious leer, but quite the opposite. He looked at ease, as if he was taking a stroll through the gardens.

“Your Grace,” he said, his words carrying well throughout the room.

“Will you not kneel before your King?” Tywin said suddenly, his booming tone a stark contrast to the breathy voice of the man before him.

“I kneel only before the Gods,” he responded calmly, a smile spreading on his face.

Alayne watched with bated breath, certain that it was only a matter of minutes before the man was killed.

“What have you to say for yourself?” Joffrey asked, looking only mildly agitated so far. _That’s bound to change,_ _I’m sure._

“Nothing. I am not aware that I have committed a crime.”

“Have you not conspired against the King? Rebelled against him openly in the streets?” Tywin spoke, jaw clenched.

Joffrey added, “My own wife was caught in a riot not so long ago, a riot of your making.”

Margaery clasped her hands in her lap and looked over the man closely. This was the first time that evening she had looked up.

“Oh no, you have it all wrong,” he said, speaking to Joffrey as if they were friends. _He must be a f_ _ool._ “The riot was most unfortunate, and I apologise on behalf of the Sparrows. However, the matter has since been dealt with. As for your accusation that I have rebelled against His Grace, I must confess that it is quite the opposite.”

“Explain,” Tywin commanded, not giving his grandson time to speak, and Joffrey glared at him out of the corner of his eye.

“The Faith and the Crown are the pillars of society. If one falls, so does the other. It is my suggestion, and my proposition, that we work together so that we may last through the coming winter.”

“Pretty words and promises?” Tywin looked unimpressed. “Is that meant to persuade me?”

The man laughed. “No, of course not. I don’t expect you to trust me so readily, which is why I brought a gift for His Grace.” He turned and waved a hand to one of the guards by the doors. “If you please.”

The guard opened the door to let in three men. Two of them were, like their leader, dressed in brown shrouds, and carved into their foreheads was the Seven Pointed Star. Held up between them was a large man with blood stained clothes, his face obscured by long, dirty hair, thick chains wrapped around his ankles and wrists that chinked loudly as he was dragged up to the front.

“I’ve been told you enjoy hunting, Your Grace,” the leader said as his two followers yanked their prisoner’s head up. Alayne stood frozen, her blood pounding violently in her ears. “Perhaps a dog would be a suitable pet?”

There, with his scarred face held up for the King to see, was Sandor Clegane.

* * *

 

✦ [Ezio, visual 1](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/assassinscreed/images/b/bb/Artwork_-_Ezio%27s_face.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20111030005926) ✦

✦ [Ezio, visual 2](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/50/81/ee/5081ee4cfa92c29d90a872fd71dd02d3.png) ✦

✦ [Song: Blood on My Name - The Brothers Bright](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MOSU_Pw7vO4) ✦

✦ [Adamantine Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/inarakel99/playlist/17h1rOULXlBabB0YDHqk1H) ✦

✦ [My Tumblr](https://etherina.tumblr.com/) ✦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all... the next chapter is already halfway done... is this real life??
> 
> ANYWAYSSS, what did you think of this chapter? I'd love to hear your thoughts, so please please pleaseee leave a comment! They keep me going ;)


	11. Hellhound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy this new chapter, loves <3
> 
> Thanks to [petyrbaealish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/petyrbaealish/pseuds/petyrbaealish) for beta reading!  
> 

* * *

  

“ _Grave digger, grave digger, bring me to my knees._  
_Forget what I have done, forgive me if you please”_

* * *

 

 _He’s alive._ She could do nothing to stop the thought from repeating in her head.

 _He’s alive._ Her fists were clenched tightly at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. She wanted to scream, to break something.

 _He’s alive._ She’d thought him dead. For over ten years she’d thought him dead.

_This can’t be happening._

“Calm down.”

Sansa stopped her pacing and whirled furiously towards her sister. “Calm down? You want me to calm down? How could I possibly _calm down?”_

Arya folded her arms over her chest. “I want to kill The Hound just as much as you do but–”

“Kill him?” Sansa interrupted. “You think I want to kill him?”

“Well, don’t you?”

“No!” Sansa threw her hands up hopelessly. “Why on earth would I want to do that?”

“He hurt you! Held you prisoner here!”

“On Joffrey’s orders!”

Suddenly they were both shouting.

“He killed Mycah!”

“We’ve killed people too!”

“Not _innocent_ people!”

“I don’t care what he’s done! He saved me!” Her voice broke into half a sob. “He smuggled me away when he had the chance. Without him, I would have been trapped here. Trapped in this _awful place_ and _..._ ”

“Girls.” Ezio spoke softly, but it caught their attention nonetheless. “No more fighting.”

Somehow, he looked older than he had mere hours ago. It was as if Sansa only now noticed his fifty years. His hair had streaks of silver, making it look more grey than black these days, and faint lines permanently creased his forehead, even as he laughed, carefree and at ease. A white scar was etched over his lips, carving a pale path through his beard. _When did he get that?_ she wondered idly.

And yet, the biggest change was in his eyes.Ezio had always been so full of life, so energetic, but now he looked... _tired._

“The Queen’s nameday celebration is in two days,” he continued with a heavy sigh, slumping in his chair. “We must discuss what consequences today’s events will have upon our plans.”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Arya insisted, shaking her head. “Joffrey will have his fun with The Hound and eventually kill him. That doesn’t affect us.”

Sansa clenched her jaw so hard she thought her teeth might crack.

“That’s where you’re wrong, love.” Ezio held up a piece of parchment between two fingers. “While you were too busy shouting at each other, _this_ arrived. It appears Dondarrion’s camp was compromised not too long ago. Our contact heading to the wall was captured. Many others were injured, or killed.”

“Captured?” Sansa murmured, shaking as she took a deep breath. “It’s Clegane isn’t it? He’s our contact.”

“Was,” Ezio corrected. “The Brotherhood holds no hope for him, they will be sending someone else once they’ve recuperated. I do not know how long that will take.”

“So we won’t even try to save him?”

“Do you think that’s wise?” He raised an eyebrow, smiling wryly. “I know you care for him. I know you feel like you owe him something after he helped you escape, but you can’t save everyone. He chose to fight for us, for the Brotherhood, for the Dawn. He knew the risks. You shouldn’t feel guilty.”

Her eyes were glassy with tears, but she refused to let them fall. “He was the only one who cared about me. I can’t just turn my back on him.”

Arya huffed bitterly. “Perhaps you’ll have to.”

_~~~_

Darkness settled painfully slow, the sky unwilling to give up it’s pinkish hue for the longest of times before finally turning black, the only remaining colour being a hint of dark blue mingling with the approaching storm clouds.

Sansa stood on the rooftop, the tiles clinking softly underneath her as she shifted her weight, not unlike a wind chime in the summer breeze. Thankfully, it was too quiet a noise for anyone but her to hear.

She finished buckling the belt around her waist and then raised the hood of her cloak, letting it shadow her determined face.

She’d locked herself in her chambers after her discussion with Ezio and Arya, not that she’d spoken much to her sister at all after their argument. However, she _had_ listened dutifully to Ezio, doing her best to focus her mind on the battles to come.

The Brotherhood Without Banners would gather their remaining forces and soon place another contact for the Assassin Order at Castle Black, enabling them to keep a closer eye at the looming threat beyond the wall. After that, the real work would would start — after that, people would be killed as strategically as one sacrifices pawns in a game of cyvasse.

Arya’s lip had twitched at that notion. _“Give me names, I’ll give you blood,”_ she’d said.

And so the war for the Dawn would begin —a war starting within its own castle walls.

The Hound’s capture appeared to be the catalyst that would force their plans into motion, regardless of Sansa’s feelings on the matter. Ezio had clearly warned her against trying to save him, to pay him back for her freedom, but her treacherous mind had simply picked up upon the fact that he had not forbidden her.

He didn’t need to know. Arya didn’t need to know either. They’d find out later on anyway.

Sansa had never done this before. She had never actively sought to fulfil her own wishes and desires. Everything she had done since arriving in Valyria had been for the Assassin Order, _for the Realm._ Not once had she acted upon the temptation to be selfish. _U_ _nlike Arya._

Meryn Trant had deserved to die, but Arya should not have killed him so recklessly upon seeing him in Volantis one evening. Granted, she had been scolded and punished for it, made sure to regret her impulsive decision as neither Ezio nor Jaqen spoke to her for a moon’s turn after the incident, but the consequences were not worse than that.

Sansa could handle it. _If Arya was allowed one mistake, so am I. One selfish act does not make me unable to act selflessly._

_**I just have to save him.** _

She disappeared unnoticed from the Eastern Tower, her cloak blending seamlessly with the dark of the night. It did not take long before she arrived at the entrance of the dungeons, making her descent through the tunnels to the black cells.

The guards were easy enough to sneak past, most already half-asleep and likely confident that no harm could come to them. All dangerous people were behind bars, were they not?

As she reached the third level she was faced with a thick wooden door studded with iron, three heavy locks keeping it secure. She wasted no time in picking them open, one by one. She had never been particularly good at it, Arya had always been better at getting into places she shouldn’t, but it couldn’t be helped. She was on her own.

She was just about to start picking the third lock, having already opened the other two, when she heard the faint sound of breathing behind her. Her heart dropped to her stomach, her body tensing involuntarily as she quickly turned around, ready to extend the Hidden Blade within her leather gauntlet, but it was too late.

Two hands clamped down on her wrists, holding them securely by her sides as she was pressed back against the door. Her attacker seemed to know exactly where to keep his limbs, making her unable to reach any of her weapons.

_No. Not here, not now._

She struggled against him helplessly, her mind incapable of forming a calculated plan of escape.

“Why are you here?” he asked abruptly and she stopped her attempts at breaking free. There was a lump in her throat. She couldn’t seem to swallow it down.

“I… uh,” she stammered. _Damn._

“Do you realise how dangerous this is? Not only for you but for the Order?” He was angry, it wasn’t hard to tell.

“I just...”

“Do you wish to break the Creed?” Ezio hissed, releasing her, but she remained pressed against the door.

“No,” she said miserably.

“ _Never_ compromise the Order. Do you remember?” She remembered. Of course she remembered the Creed. How couldn’t she? There were three rules she had to follow, and she _had_ followed them, always. “It’s meaning should be obvious. Your actions must never bring harm upon us — direct or indirect!”

She swallowed again, suddenly filled with fury. “Would the war not bring harm upon us? And yet we’re ready to head into battle.”

His eyes flashed warningly. “The war is a necessary risk. Many of us will surely die, that much is true, but if we do not fight, _all_ will be lost.” He sighed, shoulders dropping and eyes closing briefly with fatigue. “I know you want to save him, but you cannot.”

“Why?” she snapped, though their conversation was still in whispers. “Because you said so? Because everyone hates him? _I don’t care about that!_ He’s on our side!”

Ezio sighed again, looking at her closely, sadness in his gaze. “He really matters to you, does he?”

Sansa glanced down at her feet. “After father was killed… Sandor Clegane was the only one who tried to protect me.”

Ezio shook his head and muttered, “I’m getting too old to argue… Very well. I shall help you in your quest.”

Sansa released a breath that had been stuck in her chest. “Truly? You’ll help me?”

“You will attempt to save him with or without me. You’ll have a better chance of succeeding if I join.”

She threw her arms around him in a crushing embrace. “Thank you.”

He held her to him tightly for a moment and then eased her off. “Do not thank me yet. He’s still stuck in his cell.”

“Then let’s get him out.”

“Not tonight.” Sansa frowned deeply. “We must make sure he gets out of the city as soon as possible after we free him. I shall make the necessary accommodations in time for the Queen’s feast.”

“Alright,” she agreed, but hesitated as Ezio made to leave. “Can I see him? Now, I mean.”

Ezio turned his head to the exit, contemplating, and then turned back to her, giving her a sharp nod. “I will stay here as a lookout, but make it quick. We’ve already lingered too long.”

Her face broke into a smile and she quickly started picking the last lock, hands shaking when it finally clicked open. She slunk inside and headed forward after closing the door behind her, ignoring the rats that scurried away from her path.

The air was foul and thick, reeking of piss and human waste, strong enough to make her gag. It was hard to tell where the stench was coming from as it was pitch black inside. There were no windows, as deep underground as they were, and no sconces lit up the walls.

Her eyes glimmered silver as she focused her senses, relieved as her surroundings immediately became clearer. It was far from crystal, almost like trying to see the bottom of a still, murky lake, but it was better than nothing. Without her sight, she feared she might get lost.

Some of the cells she passed were empty, some were not, but the prisoners behind the bars were much the same. They were all dirty, their hair hanging in clumps and their clothes in tatters where they lay, sleeping or unconscious, in their confined spaces. There seemed to be no women, only men who could surely crush her if they hadn’t been starved half to death.

One prisoner she passed even had sharpened teeth and he growled at her as she walked past, sniffing in the air like he could smell her.

Beside him was a younger man who, unlike his neighbour, cowered away from her. He was huddled in a corner, a thick mass of curly hair shielding his eyes, his entire body shivering from the biting cold. He did not look much older than Sansa.

She wondered what he could have done to end up here. The black cells were, after all, only meant for the most dangerous of criminals.

She halted only a few steps further down, her eyes locking on The Hound’s solid form. He was sitting in the centre of his cell, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, glaring at the floor like he expected it to break from the force of his gaze alone.

Sansa took a silent step closer. She didn’t know how to address him. Her first instinct was to call him ‘ _Ser_ ’ but, as he had reminded her so many times before, he was no _‘Ser’._

_I can hardly use his name._

“Good Evening,” she murmured stupidly, falling back into her old habits of courtesy all too easily.

His head snapped up, and his furious glare was suddenly fixed on her despite the dark. He did not speak, his mouth remaining in a tight line.

She took yet another step closer, the soles of her feet making a shuffling noise as she moved. Her hand reached out, almost as if to try to touch him, but she stopped and instead curled her fingers around one of the bars that confined him. A buckle on her gauntlet clinked against the cold metal.

“Come any closer,” he said suddenly, his voice rough and deep, “and I’ll rip your arm from its socket.”

Sansa took a deep breath, the corners of her lips twitching into a tiny smile. “Lucky for me you’re locked up then, Ser.” The title slipped through without her meaning to say it.

“What did you call me?” he growled, slowly getting to his feet. He struggled at first, but Sansa barely noticed as his eyes wildly searched for her in the dark. He looked like some sort of caged animal, all crazed and savage. _A hound before the hunt._

She understood now why she had been so afraid of him as a child. Even now, she felt a trickle of irrational fear trailing down her spine.

“You heard me,” she responded calmly, but her back was tense and she was more than ready to snatch her hand back from the iron bar and back away from him. “But perhaps you shouldn’t listen to me. I’m just a little bird singing my songs.”

She saw as comprehension dawned in his eyes. He caught his footing, for a second looking as if he might crumple to the floor, before righting himself, the air going out of him in a harsh breath. He opened his mouth to speak.

“Don’t say my name,” she warned, interrupting. “Others might hear.”

“Little bird?” he offered instead. “How are you still alive?”

“The same way you are — the Brotherhood, the Order...”

“You’re one of _them_?” She nodded and he barked out a laugh. “I suppose I underestimated you.”

Sansa wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, but she didn’t have to. There was a light melody echoing through the dungeons, the whistle of a bird.

“I have to go,” she said. “I’ll be back in two days. I’ll get you out.”

Before she could leave, he spoke, “Why? Why would you help me?”

She looked back at him, her chest feeling tight as she met his eyes. _Does he not hold any hope of being rescued?_ _Does he think so little of himself_ _that he believes no one would help him when he needs it the most_ _?_

She tried to take a deep breath but her lungs were suddenly too small. “I couldn’t save my father. I couldn’t save my mother, or my brothers. I can save you. I _will_.”

She said the last two words as a promise, and then she fled, the only sound being the rustle of fabric as she ran. She couldn’t bear to hear him dismiss her, discourage her from setting him free. His imaginary voice was loud and clear in her head. _“Silly girl. You’re too weak. You can’t even_ _accept that a killer like me deserves to die.”_

As the heavy wooden door shut behind her, she let those thoughts stay trapped inside.

 

* * *

  

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Speculations? Feel free to write them down in the comments! I'd love to read them <3


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